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ST. NICHOLAS:

Illustrated Magazine

For Young Folks.

CONDUCTED BY

MARY MAPES DODGE.

VOLUME XVII.

Part I., November, 1889, to April, 1S90.

T HE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK.

T. FISHER UNWIN, LONDON.

The De Vinne Press.

library, Univ. of
North Carolina

ST. NICHOLAS

VOLUME XVII.

PART I.

Six Months — November, 1889, to April, 1890.

CONTENTS OF PART I. VOLUME XVII.

PAGE

Agassiz Association, The Harlan H. Ballard 94

Ann Lizy's Patchwokk Mary E. Wilkins 44

Armadillo Hunt, An. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Walter B. Barrows 353

Autumn Revel, An. Poem. (Illustrated by O. Beck) Ida Warner Van der Voort. . 176

Ballad of King Henry of Castile, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe /

-u , } Tudor Jenks 477

Hassam) ) ^' J

Bertha's Debut. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) , Elia W. Peatiie 217

Blue-eyed Mary. Verse Mary E. Wilkins 21

" Bluenose " Vendetta, A. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) Charles G. D. Roberts 332

Boyhood of Thackeray, The. (Illustrated) Anne Thackeray Ritchie. ... 99

Boys and Girls of China, The. (Illustrated) Van Plwu Lee 362

Brownies in the Studio, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 271

Buffalo-hunting. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington and C. T. Hill) .... Theodore Roosevelt 136

Bunny Stories, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Jewett 530

By-and-by. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch) Eva L. Ogden. 153

Charles. (Illustrated by \V. A. Rogers) Laura E. Richards 270

Child and the Pyramid, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julian Hawthorne 14

Chinese Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Ruth Dana Draper 484

Chopsticks, How to Use a Pair of. (Illustrated from photographs) Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore . . . 535

Christmas Day, For. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) //. Butlerworth 1S6

Christmas Letter, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutchcson .... 113

Christmas on the " Polly." Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Grace F. Coolidge 246

Christmas, The Month Before Mary V. Wors/cll 89

Clever Peter and the Ogress. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by )

the Author) \ Katharine Pyle 35S

Constant Reader, A. Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote S6

Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California. (Illustrated by

R. B. Birch)

Cricket, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutchcson ... 57

Crowded Out o' Crofield. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) William O. Stoddard. . . .24S, 340,

436,510

Crowfoot, Old Chief. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph) .Julian Ralph 328

Crows' Military Drill, The. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) Agnes Eraser Sandham 377

Custis, George and Nellie. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395

Daisy's Calendar Daisy E. Barry 1S5

Daniel Boone and the Indian. Pictures. . 534

Design for Decoration of a Window. Picture, drawn by Isabel McDougal 255

Dogs, Some Asiatic Thomas Stevens 314

Dorothy Dot's Thanksgiving Party. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Ada M. Trotter 22

Dreams. Poem S. Walter Harris 151

Drop-kick, The. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) W. T. Bull 237

Ducking of Goody Grill, The. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Alice Maude Ewell 407

Elephants, The King of the. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527

Elf Song. Poem Samuel Minium Peck 327

y^ Enchanted Mesa, The. (Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf, H. M. Eaton, and ,

r( from a photograph) .

> C. F. Holder 3

Charles F. Lummis 207

»S " Euchred ! " Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 519

*J Every-day Bacteria Prof. F. D. Chester 350

J February. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 337

VI CONTENTS.

PAGE

Fifteen Minutes with a Cyclone. (Illustrated by T. Moran and W. Taber) .M. Louise Ford 429

Fools' Waltz, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hit tcheson. . . . 226

For Christmas Day. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) H. Bultenuorth 186

Friends or Foes ? A Play .Elbridge S. Brooks 419

From Thebes. Picture, drawn by E. A. Cleveland Coxe 454

George and Nellie Custis. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395

Greedy. Verse. Sydney Dayre 357

Happy Charity Children. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller Sprague 152

Helen Thayer Hutcheson. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231

Horse, A Story of a. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27

How Bessie Wrote a Letter Edith G. Scran 319

How the Emperor Goes. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) M. Helen Lovetl 173

How to Use a Pair of Chopsticks. (Illustrated from photographs) .... Eliza Ruhamak Scidmore . . . 535

Hutcheson, Helen Thayer. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231

Iceberg, The Story of the. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescott Spofford 129

If the Babes Were the Bards. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall \

Wheelan) \ Fra "" s Randa!l lS 3

" I 'll Wait for You. Come on ! " Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock F"oote 161

Imperious Yawn, The. Verse Henry Moore 381

Intercollegiate Foot-ball in America. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles, )

H. A. Ogden, and from photographs) \ Walter Cam f- • ■ 3 6 > l66 > 2 4', 3*1

In the Tenement. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Malcolm Douglas 221

Jack's Cure. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Susan Curtis Rcdfield 382

January. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 224

Jingle, A. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Francis Randall 308

Jingles 258, 308, 521

Jokers of the Menagerie. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) John Russell Coryell 71

King Henry of Castile, The Ballad of. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe )

Hassam) \ Tudor ' Jenks 473

King in Egypt, A. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutchison . . . 230

King of the Elephants, The. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527

Kittie's Best Friend. (Illustrated) M. Helen Lovett 77

Lady Jane. (Illustrated by A. C. Redwood) Mrs. C. V. Jamison 492

Last Cricket, The. Poem . . Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 113

Launching of a War-ship, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian 0. Davidson 338

Little Alvilda. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) Hjalmar II. Boyesen 130

Little Button wood Man, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Helen P. Strong 267

Little Dutchess, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards 326

Little Gnome, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards 87

March. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 405

Marjorie and her Papa. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch after designs by the )

Authm) S '' Ro1 ' 1 ''' 1 H ' Fh ' tc '"' r - ■ ■ 5 22

May Bartlett's Stepmother. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Mora Perry 144, 198, 301

Mistaken Scientist, The. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 353

Month Before Christmas, The Mary V. Worstell 89

Morning Melody, A. Poem Mary Bradley 336

Mother Nature's Babes in the Wood E. M. Harding 450

New-fashioned Christmas, A. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julie M. Lippmann 265

Noray AND THE Ark Harry Stilhvell Edwards . . . 433

Off for Slumberland. Poem Caroline Evans . 418

Old Chief Crowfoot. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph). Julian Ralph 328

Old Doll, An. (Illustrated) Margaret W. Bisland 426

On a Mountain Trail. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Harry Perry Robinson 371

Osman Pasha at Bucharest. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . . 228

Ostrich-ranch in the United States, An. (Illustrated by W. Taber, )

, r , . , . { Anna Eichoersr Rwe-. .... 261

and from photgraphs) \ * *

Ovenbird, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 520

Over the Wall. Poem Anna II. Branch 86

Packet of Letters, A. Verse. ("Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 502

CONTENTS. VII

PAGE

Picnic ON the Stairs, A. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) 258

Pictures 86, 152, 161, 255, 275, 353, 447, 454, 504, 519, 534

Pilot-boat "Torching " by Night. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 256

Poem Postponed, A. Jingle : Helen C. Walden 521

Poet of the Hempstead Centennial, The. (Illustrated by Harper Pen- >

, / Hialmar H. Bovesen 16

nmgton) \ J

Prairie Prelude, A. Poem Kate M. Clcary 537

Precious Tool-chest, A Ernest Ingersoll 505

Prince and the Brewer's Son, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Elizabeth Batch 50

Professor and the Patagonian Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell). Tudor Jcnks 161

Pueblo Rabbit-hunt, A. (Illustrated by W. Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh ). Charles F. Lummis 9

Quite a Singer. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 376

Rabbit-hunt, A Pueblo. (Illustrated by W. Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh) . Charles F. Lummis 9

Race for Life, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Emma W. Demeritt 6S

Race with a Wooden Shoe, A. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Frederick E. Partington ... 80

Routine of the Republic, The Edmund Alton 233

Samoa, The Story of the Great Storm at. (Illustrated by J. O. David- >

son, G. W. Edsvards, and from photographs) $ ' * ' ' "" J

Schoolmates. Poem Alice Maude Ewell 331

Scientific Experiment, A Sophie Swett 5S

Screech-owl, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 432

Seven Little Indian Stars. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 406

Shadow-bird and his Shadow. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 335

Sir Rat. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 65

Six Years in the Wilds of Central Africa. (Illustrated by E. \V

Kemble, E. J. Glave, W. Taber, and Otto Bacher) . <, E ' J ' Glave 4 59

Some Asiatic Dogs Thomas Stevens 314

Song of the Snowflakes. Poem John Vance Cheney 309

Starfish, A. Verse Caroline Evans 509

STORY OF a Horse, A. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27

Story of the Great Storm at Samoa, The. (Illustrated by J. O. David- >

son, G. W. Edwards, and from photographs) , Jo!ln R Dunni »S 2S3

Story of the Iceberg, The. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescolt Spofford. . . . 129

Thackeray, The Boyhood of. (Illustrated) Anne Thackeray Ritchie. . . 99

" The Idea of Calling This Spring ! " Picture, drawn by W. Taber 504

"Thereby Hangs a Tail." (Illustrated by the Author) Harper Pennington 44S

"There once was a Man with a Sneeze." Jingle. (Illustrated by R. >

B. Birch) \ 2 5 S

Through the Back Ages. First Paper Teresa C. Crofton 490

To-day in a Garden. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutchesou. . . . 225

Toddling Island. Poem Edith M. Thomas 352

Touch of Nature, A. Verl? Anna F. Bnrnham 363

Tracked by a Panther. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Charles G. D. Roberts 213

Two Ways of Having a Good Time Frances E. Willard 348

Valentine for Allis, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 313

Visit to John's Camp, A. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary Hallock Foote 479

Well-filled Chimney, A. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Mabel Loomis Todd 222

White and the Red, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Alice Maude Ewell 114

Why Corn Pops. (Illustrated by the Author) Harry A. Doty 74

Winter Apples. Poem Hattie Whitney 76

Winter Costumes. (Illustrated by the Designer) Rose Mueller Sprague 446

„ T ,, i Mark Twain and >

Wonderful Pair of Slippers, A. (Illustrated) < p/ . T .. , , > . . 309

Yule-log's Song, The. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Harriet Prescolt Spofford. ... 195

Frontispieces.

" In Full Cry," by R. B. Birch, facing Title-page of Volume — " William Makepeace Thackeray," from a bust
by J. Devile, page 98 — " Ready for a New Year," by F. French, page 194 — "The Adler Plunging Toward the

VIII CONTENTS.

PAGE

Reef," by J. O. Davidson, page 282 — " On a Mountain Trail," by W. Taber, page 370 — " A Night on the Congo,"
by E. W. Kemble, page 458.

DEPARTMENTS.
Plays and Music.

For Christmas Day. (Illustrated) //. Butlerworth 186

Friends or Foes ? Elbridge S. Brooks 419

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.)

Introduction — Jack's Italian Cousin — The Knowing Woodpecker — The Frigate-bird — That Bicycle Path —
Red Schoolhouse Queries — A Veteran Rose-bush — A Nebraska Show (illustrated), 84; Introduction — The
Old Year and the New — Stones for Fuel — A City Wanted? — Those Big Pumpkins — A Mississippi Doll —
The Hildesheim Rose-bush — He Caught a Tartar — Looking Back — Excited Brownies (picture), 274; Intro-
duction — The Carpenter Bee — Is the Panther Cowardly? — Why Not Try ? — Rude Courtesy — A Roman
Feast — How a Boy was Taught to Turn Out his Toes — Blooming in Latin — A Sprig that Tied Itself Into
a Knot (illustrated), 360; Introduction — The Frigate-bird — A City Wanted, 538.

The Letter-eox. (Illustrated) 92, 188, 276, 364, 452, 540

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 95, 191, 279, 367, 455, 543

Editorial Notes 92, 18S, 364

IN FULL CRY.

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

NOVEMBER, 1889.

No. 1.

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN

CALIFORNIA.

By C. F. Holder.

! I write, a hound,
faithful and true, is
looking up into my
face, her long slen-
der muzzle resting
on my arm, her
eyes beaming with
intelligence. Her
name is " Mouse,"
and she is a grey-
hound known to
many readers of
St. Nicholas in
the San Gabriel
Valley, in South-
ern California. She
is blinking, puffing out her lips, whining, in
fact, laughing and talking after her fashion ;
and probably this is what she is trying to say ;
" I am a greyhound. I can outrun any hare in
Pasadena, and when I was younger and not so
heavy I could jump up behind my master on
the horse when the grass and flowers were tall,
and so look around for a jack-rabbit."

Mouse does not mention that the horse de-
cidedly objected to her sharp claws, sometimes
bucking to throw her off, and thus has often made

READY FOR

it very uncomfortable for her master. She has
just taken her head from my arm, offended per-
haps at this breach of confidence, so I must
continue the story without further comment
from her.

Mouse is but one of a number of dogs that
constitute the pack of the Valley Hunt Club of
Pasadena, Southern California. Most are grey-
hounds, but there are a few of the fine stag-
hounds that the famous Landseer loved to paint.
Some are mouse-colored, like Mouse herself;
others a tawny hue ; others again mouse and
white. And in the field together they present a
fine appearance — long, slender forms, delicate
limbs, powerful muscles, rat-like tails, deep chests,
pointed muzzles, and feet like springy cushions.
They are quaintly described in the old lines :

" Headed like a snake,
Necked like a drake,
Backed like a beam,
Sided like a bream,
Tailed like a rat,
And footed like a cat.' 1

When preparing for an outing, Mouse and
Dinah (the latter being her baby, though taller
than the mother) well know what is to come.
When riding-crop, gloves, saddle, and bridle

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

[Nov.

appear, they become intensely excited, and in- colored, and one is jet-black. Each a bunch of

sist upon holding my gloves or the crop, and, springs and nerves, a noble group they make :

when I mount, leap up against the horse with Dinah, Silk, Ra'ymon, Mouse, Fleet, Eclipse, and

every expression of delight. As we ride out of many more.

the orange grove, it is a wild and delicious The hunt is made up of nearly one hundred

morning, such as one can find, in February, ladies and gentlemen, lovers of riding and dogs,

only in Southern California. Hills, fields, and Thirty or more are on horseback, with invited

meadows are green, roses are on every side, or-
anges glisten on their dark-green trees, the air
is rich with floral odors and filled with the song
of birds. Snow is gleaming on the big peaks
of the Sierra Madres : it is winter there, over

guests from all over the county, and the remain-
der in coaches and carriages, who follow the
hunt in this way and at noon meet the riders
at breakfast in some shaded nook. The horn
sounds gleefully. The great, high-pointed Mex-

the tops of the orange trees, but summer down ican saddles, which the gentlemen use, are looked

here in the valley. No wonder the dogs are after. Horses champ their musical bits, eager

delighted and the horses need the curb. Ladies to be off, and finally, at the word, the cavalcade

and gentlemen appear, coming out of side streets winds slowly down the hill, spreading out over

and bound for the "meet," followed by coaches the mesa — a gently rising tract, the slope of

with merry riders, all headed for the mesa at
the foot of the Sierra Madre range. Now the
silvery notes of a horn are borne melodiously

the mountains, planted with grape, orange, and
olive, with intervening spaces of very low brush.
Two miles or less away, rise the Sierra Madres

fli^

, s

on the wind, and out from the shadow of the like a huge stone wall, with peaks from four thou-
eucalyptus grove comes the pack of hounds sand to eleven thousand feet high; and along
from San Marino, one of the beautiful homes their base the hunt proceeds. A few feet in ad-
in the San Gabriel ; a few moments later the vance, mounted on a fiery bronco, is the master

of the hounds with his
silver horn. The dogs
separate and move slow-
ly ahead, wading now
through banks of golden
poppies, wild heliotrope,
and brown-backed violets.
Greyhounds do not hunt
by scent, as foxhounds
do, but by sight alone;
so. even- now and then
they stop to look about,
all the while keeping a
keen eye ahead.

Suddenly there is a
shout, and horses and
dogs are away. From
under the very nose of
Mouse a curious appari-
tion springs up — a fluffy

VKjgP

THF. HOl'ND COL'LD JI/MP UPON THE HORSE, AND SO LOOK AROIND FOR A JACK-RABBIT.'

hunt is together on a lofty hill overlooking the
surrounding country. Young folks are patting
and admiring the dogs ; and noble fellows these
dogs are. Among them are some great tawnv
leonine creatures, brought from Australia, where
the) - hunted the kangaroo ; others are mouse-

object of grayish tints. It is the jack-rabbit !
For an instant he stands astonished, wondering
what it is all about, then dashes away like a
rocket and is followed by the field. Nearly all
the dogs see him ; while those that do not, fol-
low the others. The horses seem to understand

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

,,;,;,';/ Wi P "' 71]

the shout and in a moment are on' in a wild
race over the mesa, beating down the flowers
and throwing clods of earth behind them.

The " Jack," true to his instincts, makes for
the low brush in a washout. He seems a streak
of light disappearing and reappearing here and
there. The dogs are doing their best, working
like machines. Watch
their wonderful running !
Even at the terrific pace,
with ditches, and holes
dug by gophers, badgers,
or owls to look out for,
the action of the beauti-
ful dogs attracts our at-
tention. They sweep on
like the wind — a kaleido-
scopic effect of grays and
yellows, passing and re-
passing. Now Silk leads,
then in turn the blue dog
is ahead. See ! Mouse
is in the air. Losing
sight of the game, she
leaps bodily three feet
upward over the brush,
looks quickly around,
catches sight of the flee-
ing form, and is away
again. The speed is mar-
velous ! No race-horse
can keep up with a thoroughbred racing grey-
hound, yet the field is doing bravely. One little
boy, though far behind, follows pluckily, his
short-legged pony struggling sturdily through a
plowed field.

The hare has dashed across the washout and
up a large vineyard, around and down a well-
known road. How they go ! Four, six, ten
horses all bunched, and running like the wind —
a wild, melodious jangle of hoofs, spurs, and bit-
chains. Up go the dogs suddenly. "Jump!"
cries the Master of the Hounds warningly,
turning in his saddle. The hare has stopped
abruptly at the edge of a dry ditch and turned at
a sharp angle. Some of the dogs go over and
sweep around in great curves, while others break
oft on both sides and are soon following the
game over the back track. A noble chase it is !
Everything favors the hare, and he is making a

great run. Hunters give out; one or two dogs
are fagged ; but over the green fields and down
toward the city goes the main body of the hunt.
The little fellow on the pony has become dis-
couraged. The pony is breathing hard and his
brave rider's yellow locks have evidently been
in contact with the pin-clover.

1 ' .

THE DOG INSERTS ITS LONG NOSE BENEATH THE HARE, AND TOSSES HIM INTO THE AIR.

But courage ! what is this ? A shout from
below, and he sees the Jack, with ears flat, — a
signal of distress, — coming up the slope; the
dogs have turned him again. Off" the young rider
goes over the field, side by side with hare and
hounds. Soon a big mouse-colored dog darts
ahead, overtakes the hare, and kills him in-
stantly. Often the dog inserts its long nose
beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air. A
moment later, the entire field is about the catch,
and the long ears and diminutive brush of this
farmers' pest decorate the hat of the first lady in
at the finish.

Panting dogs and horses and flushed riders are
grouped about ; owners making excuses for pet
dogs, and all agreeing that the hare was a most
extraordinary old fellow, wily and conceited.
He must have girdled many peach and cherry
trees in his time, and no one mourns his fate.

fe, &.

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

Now the run is discussed, and its good points
dilated upon ; favorite horses are petted, and
young men with suspicious grass stains on
their coats and trousers are ridiculed. Now
one may see a thirsty clog drinking from a can-
teen which one of the huntsmen has unslung,
while other dogs await their turn ; others again
are lying on the cool grass, panting like steam-
engines, yet very proud of their work. Half an
hour or more is given for rest, then dogs, horses,
and riders are ready for another run, and per-
haps two miles of delightful country is gone
over before another hare is seen. This time he
runs for the mountains, and after carrying the
hunt a mile or more up the slope, dashes into
the big canon and is away, while the disap-
pointed dogs and riders join the coaches and
carriages at the hunt breakfast, spread on the
slope among the wild flowers; and here, looking
down on the lovely valley and the Pacific Ocean
thirty miles away, the day's sport ends.

Such is real "hare and hounds" in Southern
California — an inspiriting sport, as the natural
instincts of the greyhounds are given full play,
and the hare has every advantage, and can only
be caught if faithfully followed by riding at a
pace which, for speed and excitement, is never
equaled, I venture to say, in the Eastern States.

The greyhound is becoming a popular dog in
America, and coursing clubs are being formed
throughout the country, dogs being imported at
great expense. In certain regions of Califor-
nia the hare exists in myriads, and the ranchers
keep the greyhounds to' run them off, so it is nat-
ural that Californians should believe that they
have some of the fastest dogs in the country.
How fast can they run? A good greyhound
has been known to run four miles in twelve
minutes. "Silk" has caught a hare within one
hundred and fifty feet of the start, and as for
" Mouse," now fat and heavy, I have run the
fastest horse I could find against her, and she
was always just ahead, looking back as if to
say, " Why don't you come ? " The pace of
the dogs is illustrated by the fact that two of
them when running in a vineyard came into col-
lision; light and slender as the animals were,
one dog's neck was broken and the other hound
was seriously injured.

Coursing is by no means a new sport. Not

only is it an old English custom, but even in
the ancient carvings of Thebes we find the
greyhound. Among the ancients, chasing the
hare with these dogs was considered a noble
sport, for the greyhound has an aristocratic
mien, and is the type of refinement and cul-
ture among dogs. True coursing differs ma-
terially from the methods of the hunt described,

*Qm**dJr Bag?

y4^

■^;,

■»• i ,\i\f/\'A i.. ,. ■•

,■»

GREYHOUNDS DRINKING FROM A CANTEEN AFTER THE RUN.

and often degenerates into a sport carried on
simply for gain. It was first organized as a
sport by Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, in the time
of Elizabeth, and the old rules are to some ex-
tent followed in England to-day. In these, the
various efforts of the dogs in turning the hare
count, and numbers of dogs contest, one with
another, to a finish. In America, coursing clubs
rarely, if ever, run the dogs in narrow inclosures,
as it is thought unsportsmanlike not to give the
hare every advantage. Certainly, such is the
spirit of the sport in Southern California.

The hare runs as fast as the dogs, but as he
lacks their endurance he takes them up slopes
and over rough country, displaying great cun-
ning. One hare, which I have chased a number
of times, invariably ran in a wide circle, finally
leading the dogs among the rocks and escaping

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

in a thick grove. This little animal is indebted
to me for much exercise, and I have no doubt
he enjoyed the running. The hare being smaller
and lighter can turn more quickly, and the best
dog is the one that can most adroitly meet these
quick changes of direction. The pack is rushing
along when the hare suddenly turns at a right
angle ; poor dogs overrun and take a wide turn,
and before they can recover, the hare is far away.
Still, a good dog will lose but little. Once my
dog had almost caught a hare, when the cun-
ning animal darted to a tree and began to run
around it in a circle, while I stopped and looked
on. Mouse could not make the turns so quickly,
and apparently soon became dizzy, for, as the
hare ran off, she came to me very much embar-
rassed at my laughter. Another time I saw a
Jack turn suddenly, dodge Mouse's snap at
him, and dart between her legs and away.

Master M'Grath, the famous dog of Lord
Lurgan, was for many years the fastest dog in
the world, but in making comparisons it should
be remembered that the English hare is not so
swift a runner as our Western " jack-rabbit,"
or hare.

The greyhound, running by sight alone, shows
remarkable intelligence in following the game,
leaping into the air, as we have seen, looking
sharply about, and using its intelligence in a mar-
velous way. When a hare is caught, he is killed

instantly and tossed into the air, the other dogs
recognizing the . winner's rights and rarely mak-
ing an attempt to touch the game after the death.

Besides being shapely and beautiful, the grey-
hound has both courage and affection. It will
run down a deer or wolf as quickly as a hare,
and is ferocious in its anger with a large foe.
My dogs are remarkably affectionate and in-
telligent, extremely sensitive to kindness or
rebuke. The moment the house is opened in
the morning, Mouse, if not forbidden, rushes
upstairs, pushes open my door, and greets me
as if we had been separated for months. Then
she will dart into my dressing-room and reappear
with a shoe, or a leggin, if she can find it, and
present it to me, wagging her tail and saying
plainly, "Come, it 's time to be up; a fine day
for a run ! "

No charge of cruelty can be brought against
coursing where the animal is faithfully followed.
In shooting rabbits and hares they will often
escape badly wounded, but death by the hounds
is instantaneous.

The death of the hare is not considered an
important feature, the pleasure being derived
from watching the movements of the dogs, their
magnificent bursts of speed, the turns and stops,
their strategy in a hundred ways, and especially
from the enjoyment of riding over the finest
winter countrv in the world.

'• "•

CUNNING AGAINST Sl J EKD.

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

By C. F. Lummis.

It is curious how much more we hear of the
marvelous customs and strange peoples of other
lands than of those still to be found in our own
great nation. Almost every schoolboy, for in-
stance, knows of the Australian boomerang-
throwers ; but very few people in the East are
aware that within the limits of the United States,
in the portion longest inhabited by Caucasians,
we have a race of ten thousand aborigines who
are practically boomerang-throwers. It is true
that they do not achieve the wonderful parabolas
and curves of the Australians ; and, for that
matter, we are learning that many of the astound-
ing tales told of the Australian winged club are
mere fiction. It is true, however, that while the
Bushmen can not so throw the boomerang that
it will kill an animal and then return to the
thrower, they can make it return from a sportive
throw in the air ; and that they can impart to
it, even in a murderous flight, gyrations which
seem quite as remarkable as did the curving of a
base-ball when that " art " was first discovered.

The Pueblo Indians, who are our American
boomerang-throwers, attempt no such subtleties.
Their clubs are of boomerang shape, and can not
be excelled in deadly accuracy and force by the
Australian weapon; but they are thrown only
to kill, and then to lie by the victim till picked
up. Even without the " return-ball " feature, the
Vol. XVII.— 2. t

Pueblo club-throwing is the most wonderful ex~
hibition of marksmanship and skill within my
experience — and that includes all kinds of hunt-
ing for all kinds of game on this continent. Under
the circumstances in which these clubs are used,
rifles, never so skillfully handled, could not be
more effective.

The Pueblos are a peculiar people. Quiet,
friendly, intelligent, industrious farmers, they
dwell in quaint villages of neat and comfortable
adobes, which are a never-failing wonder to the
intelligent traveler in New Mexico. Their primi-
tive weapons, of course, gave place long ago to
modern fire-arms. All have good rifles and six-
shooters, usually of the best American makes,
and are expert in the use of them. But there is
one branch of the chase for which the guns are
left at home — and that is the rabbit-drive. The
outfit of each of the throng of hunters out for
a rabbit-hunt consists merely of three elbow-
crooked clubs.

When that forgotten hero, Alvar Nunez Cabeza
de Vaca, beside whose privations and wander-
ings those of all other explorers seem petty,
first set foot in the interior of the country now
called the United States, more than three and a
half centuries ago, he found the Pueblos already
using their boomerangs. Returning to Spain
after his unparalleled journey of nine years on

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

[Nov.

Indian in every motion, the free rise and fall of
the bronco lope, distinguishable even when the
figures had dwindled to wee specks on the hori-
zon; and before and beside me swart faces and
stalwart forms, sweeping on in the whirlwind of
our hoof-beats.

The second "surround" was much larger than
the first, the sentinels having been placed at
greater intervals. Just as the ends of the three-
mile circle came together, a gaunt jack sprang from
the earth at our very feet, and dashed through
the line before the hunters could even grasp
their clubs. Ambrosio, a young Apollo in bronze,
wheeled his big gray like a flash, and dashed in
pursuit — so quickly, indeed, that I had to throw
my gun in the air to avoid giving him a dose of
shot intended for the rabbit ; whereupon the
waggish old ex-governor, Vicente, called out to
me : " Cuidado !* This is not to hunt Cristianos,
but rabbits ! "

Ambrosio's mount was one of the fleetest in
the pueblo, victor in many a hard-fought galla
race ; and now he went thundering down the
plain, devouring distance with mighty leaps, and
plainly glorying in the mad race as much as did
his rider. Ambrosio sat like a carven statue, save
that the club poised in his right hand waved to
and fro tentatively, and his long jet hair streamed
back upon the wind. Todillo had found a foe-
man worthy of his hoofs. Grandly as his sinewy
legs launched him across the llano, away ahead
gleamed that strange animate streak of gray-on-
white, whose wonderful " pats " seemed never to
touch the ground. And when the thunderous
pursuer was gaining, and I could see — for I
was chasing not the rabbit but the sight — that
Ambrosio drew back his arm, there came a mar-
velous flash to the left, and there was the jack,
flying at right angles to his course of an instant
before, and now broadside toward us; I say
"flying," for so it seemed. The eye could
scarcely be convinced that that astounding ap-
parition sailing along above the dwarfed brush
was really a quadruped, forced to gather mo-
mentum from mother earth like the rest of us.
It appeared rather some great hawk, skimming
close to the ground in chase of its scurrying
prey. Try as I would, my eyes refused to real-
ize that that motion was not flight but a series
of incredible bounds.

There is none of this fascinating illusion about
the ordinary run of the jack-rabbit; and yet,
following one in the snow, when he had no more
pressing pursuer than myself on foot, I have
measured a jump of twenty-two feet ! What one
can do when pressed to his utmost, I have never
been able to decide definitely; but it is much
more than that.

Had Todillo been unused to the sport, the
race would have ended then and there ; but he
knew rabbits as well as did his master. If he
could not match — and no other animal ever
did match — the supreme grace and agility with
which his provoking little rival had doubled on
the course, the tremendous convulsion of strength
with which he swerved and followed was hardly
less admirable. It seemed as if the effort must
have broken him in twain.

Again the tall pursuer was gaining on the
pursued. Fifty feet — forty-eight — forty-five —
and Ambrosio rose high in his stirrups, his long
arm flashed through the air, and a dark streak
shot out so swiftly that for an instant the horse
seemed to have stopped, so easily it outsped
him. And in the same motion, at the same
gallop, Ambrosio was swooping low from his
saddle, so that from our side we could see only
his left arm and leg ; and in another instant was
in his seat again, swinging the rabbit triumph-
antly overhead !

We galloped back to the " surround," which
was slowly closing in, and now not a quarter of
a mile across. The inclosed brush seemed alive
with rabbits. At least a dozen were dashing
hither and yon, seeking an avenue of escape.
One old fellow in the center sat up on his
haunches, with ears erect, to take in the whole
situation. But his coolness cost him dear. " Cui-
dado!" came a yell from across the circle; and
we sprang aside just before Bautisto's rifle
flashed, and the too prudent rabbit fell, the
ball passing through his head and singing shrilly
by us.

Now the rabbits began to grow desperate,
and to try to break through the line at all haz-
ards. As soon as one was seen bearing down on
the line, the twenty or thirty nearest men made
a wild rally toward him. Sometimes he would
double away, and sometimes try to dodge be-
tween their very legs. Then what a din of yells

* Be careful.

)•]

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

went up ! How the clubs went whizzing like
giant hail ! Surely in that frantic jam of mad-
men something besides the rabbit will be killed !
One of those clubs would brain a man as surely
as it would crack an egg-shell. But no ! The
huddle breaks, the yells die out, and the " mad-
men " are running back to their places, while
one happy boy is tying a long gray something
behind his saddle. No one is even limping.
Not a shin has been cracked — much less a
head. In all my long acquaintance with the
Pueblos, I have never known of such a thing as
one getting hurt even in the most furious melee
of the rabbit-drive. Strangest of all, there is
never any dispute about the game. They always
know which one of that rain of clubs did the
work — though how they know, is beyond my
comprehension.

Yonder is another rush. The first club thrown
breaks the jack's leg ; and realizing his desperate
situation, the poor creature dives into the base-
ment door of his tiny brother, the cotton-tail —
for the jack never burrows, and never trusts him-
self in a hole save at the last extremity. Our
root-digger rushes forward, sticks his spade in
the hole to mark it, and resumes his clubs. When
the " surround " is over, he will come back to
dig eight or ten feet for his sure victim.

So the afternoon wears on. Each " surround"

takes a little over half an hour, and each now
nets the hunters from ten to twenty rabbits —
mostly jacks, with now and then a fuzzy cotton-
tail. Once in a while a jack succeeds in slipping
through the line, and is off like the wind. But
after him are from one to twenty hunters ; and
when they come back, ten minutes or half an
hour later, with foaming horses, it is strange,
indeed, if the fugitive is not dangling at the
back of one of them.

On the slope of the crater we strike a
" bunch " of quail — the beautiful quail of the
Southwest, with their slate-colored coats and
dainty, fan-like crests — and not one escapes.
I have seen the unerring club bring one down
even from a flock on the wing !

The " surrounds " are now making eastward,
and each one brings us nearer home. It has
been a good day's work — thirty-five miles of
hard riding, and fourteen " surrounds " ; and on
the cantle of every saddle bumps a big mass of
gray fur.

The evening shadows grow deeper in the
canons of the far-off sandias, chasing the last
ruddy glow up and up the scarred cliffs. And
in the soft New Mexican twilight our long
cavalcade goes ringing down the hard Rio
Puerco road toward our quaint, green-rimmed
village beside " the fierce river of the North."

TO£ CH3LD AND iS

^^ THE.Py^AMflD:

By Julian Hawthorne.

Many centuries ago, — as many as there are
days in the month, — the great King sat beside
the river Nile in Egypt, and watched the labor
of a myriad slaves, building the mighty pile of
his pyramid. And on his strong brown knee,
playing with a coral rattle with golden bells, sat
a little child, whom the great King loved be-
cause of its beauty and gentleness.

" What is that which they build there with so
many big stones ? " the child asked.

" It is my tomb," answered the King.

" What is a tomb ? " asked the child again.

" When I have lived my life and am dead,"
said the King, " and my spirit has gone to meet
Osiris, and be judged by him, — when that time
comes, the embalmers will take my royal body,
and cunningly embalm it, so that it can not perish,
nor decay come near it. Then they will wrap it
in many wrappings of fine linen steeped in per-
fumes, and seal it up in an emblazoned mummy-
case, and they will bear it, in gorgeous procession,
to yonder tomb. In the midst of the tomb there
is a secret chamber, hidden from discovery by
many a wise device ; and in the chamber a
sarcophagus, carven from a single stone."

" Will they put your body in the sarcophagus?"
asked the child.

" Aye, they will lay it there," replied the King.

" What will they do then ? " the child asked.

" Then," said the King, " they will seal up the
tomb, and the door of the secret chamber will
they close with a strong curtain of stone ; and
they will block up the passage leading to the
chamber, and conceal the entrance to the pas-
sage, so that no man can find it. That will
they do."

" But why will they do all this ? " asked the
child.

" Have I not already told you ? " said the
King. " It is done, that my body may not perish,
but endure forever."

"Forever!" said the child. "How long is
that ? "

" Nay, that is an idle question," replied the
King, smiling. "Who can tell how long ? The
High Priest is a wise man, but even he knows
not. But see how strongly the pyramid is built,
its sides lean together and uphold each other ;
its foundations are in the rock, it can not fall
to ruins; when all other works of man have
vanished from the earth, my pyramid and my
tomb shall stand."

" But how long will it stand ? " asked the child.
"Will it stand a thousand years ?"

" A thousand years ! " cried the King ; " Aye !
and more than a thousand ! "

" Will it stand three thousand years ? " said
the child.

" It will stand three thousand years," the King
answered proudly.

" Will it stand ten thousand years ? "

" Ten thousand years ? " repeated the King,
thoughtfully. " That would be a weary time !
Yet, I think it will last ten thousand years."
But after he had said it, the great King sighed,
and leaned his head upon his hand.

Still the child would not be satisfied. " Will
it last a hundred thousand years ? " it asked.

Then the King bent his brows in anger. "Ques-
tion me no more ! " he said. " What does a child
know of time ? You add centuries to centuries
with a breath, and think, because a hundred

THE CHILD AND THE PYRAMID.

thousand years are quickly said, that they will
pass as quickly. A hundred thousand years ago —
so the High Priest says — this mighty earth, with
its seas and lands and mountains, its trees and
beasts and men, — all these were but as a vapor
of the air, and as a sleeping man's dream of what
may come to pass on the morrow. A hundred
thousand years hence, — who dare look forward
so far ? To you, that are a foolish child, years
are but a sound, and a fancy ; but to men, who
have lived, and striven, and hoped, and sorrowed,
and suffered, years are harder than adamant,
stronger than brass, heavier than gold, fatal as
death. A hundred thousand years ! Child, the
face of Osiris himself shall be darkened before
they be passed ! "

Having thus spoken, the King arose and gave
the child to its nurse, for his spirit was troubled.
And the child also was troubled and wept; not
at the King's words, for it understood them not;
but because he had set his foot on the coral
rattle with golden bells, and had crushed it to
pieces.

The nurse took the child and carried it to the
barge on the river Nile ; and the boatmen took
their oars to row across the river. But it hap-
pened that, in the middle of the river, the child
slipped from the nurse's arms and fell into the
river; and the current caught it, and it was
drowned. It seemed to the child that it fell
asleep ; but immediately it was awake again ;
and opening its eyes, behold ! it was in a world
glorious with life and beauty, and sweet with
music and happiness and .love.

" Yes, this is Heaven," said the child to itself;
and with that it sprang up and went to seek its
little sister, who had gone to Heaven a little
while before.

Soon the child found its sister, where she lay
sleeping under the shadow of a plane-tree. So,
remembering that she had been most fond of a

certain blue flower, with a golden heart and a
slender stalk, the child gathered a handful of
these flowers and placed them beside her, where
she would see them when she awoke.

Then the perfume of the flowers aroused the
sleeping sister and she opened her eyes; and
when she saw the flowers, and her brother
beside her, she gave a cry of joy; and they
kissed each other.

An angel came up to them, and smiled upon
them, and said, " Come with me, and look upon
the place of the pyramid of the great King."

They went with him, putting their hands in his.
And he brought them to an opening in Heaven,
below which lay the earth and the place of the
pyramid, and said, " Look ! "

They looked through the opening, and saw
the river Nile, and the bank beside the river,
where the pyramid of the King was built. But
the pyramid was no longer there. There was
only a level tract of sand, and a lizard lying
dead upon it.

" Where is the pyramid ? " asked the child.

" It has perished," replied the angel.

" How can it have perished so soon ? " asked
the child. " I was there in the morning, and
sat on the King's knee, and saw the men build-
ing. And the King said it would last ten thou-
sand years."

" And if he did," said the angel, " are not the
ten thousand years past, and a hundred thousand
years added unto them ? "

" While I have been gathering these flowers?"
cried the child. " Then, what are years ? "

" Years are pain," replied the angel, " but love
is eternity."

The child looked in the angel's face. " I
know you now," he said; "you are the King."

But the angel folded the two children in his
arms ; and there were tears on his face, even in
Heaven.

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

By Hjalmar H. Boyesen.

k VER the stable there
was a small room which
was intended for a
coachman. But as Mr.
Craig could not afford
to keep a coachman,
Henry, his son, took
possession of the room
and fitted it up for a
study. He papered the
walls from the floor to the ceiling with pictures
from the illustrated weeklies, and sat by the hour
staring at them, making out the most astonishing
stories. He knew of no more delightful occupation
than puzzling out the connection between scenes
and subjects which, by pure accident, had been
put side by side, and tracing a coherent story, sug-
gested by the pictures. Thus, for instance, there
was a wood-cut entitled, "Shine, sir?" represent-
ing a boot-biack hailing a customer. Henry, for
the sake of convenience, named him Tom Pratt,
and began to wonder what were the later events
of his career. Presently he discovered a figure
in which he recognized a resemblance to Tom
Pratt. It was in a picture entitled, " A Scene
in the Police Court " — evidently the gentleman
whose boots Tom had blacked had accused him
of picking his pocket. Tom bravely affirmed his
innocence; but the Judge, taking the gentleman's
word in preference to Tom's, sentenced him to
three months on the Island. In the right-hand
upper corner of the wall was a picture of an
arrest, and Henry had no difficulty in convin-
cing himself that now, at last, the real thief had
been found ; and after his confession to the In-
spector, Tom is released. A large full-page cut
representing a " Monmouth Park Handicap
Race " gave the desired clue to the next chapter.
For there Henry found again his friend Tom
and Mr. Jenks, the gentleman who had falsely

accused him. Mr. Jenks, stung by his conscience,
offered to educate Tom, in order to compensate
him for the wrong he had done him. Scene
fourth, which is entitled, " Cleared for Action,"
represents the moment before the command is
given to fire, on board a man-of-war. There
Henry hails with joy the adventurous Tom, who
has now become a naval cadet and is about to
distinguish himself in battle. The fifth chapter,
which is taken from the London " Graphic," ex-
hibits Tom in the act of being presented in a
gorgeous uniform to the Czar of Russia. He is*
now an officer, and naturally has changed very
much. You would find it hard to recognize in
this handsome young fellow, with a mustache
and shoulder-straps of gold braid, the ragged
boot-black of Mulberry Street.

But Henry, somehow, never fails to recognize
him. He sits hour after hour, following him with
breathless interest, from adventure to adventure,
until finally "A Decoration Day Parade" be-
comes the culmination of Tom's career. For, to
Henry's fancy, it represents a parade in his hero's
honor, when, covered with glory and noble scars,
he returns to his native country and is met by
the mayor and aldermen of the city, with speeches
and brass bands and military pomp.

It was this kind of story Henry loved to com-
pose ; and the same pictures often furnished him
with incidents for the most different plots. The
" Scene in the Police Court " played an impor-
tant part in the careers of no end of heroes, and
there was not a ragged and disreputable scamp
in the whole shabby crowd whose life Henry did
not puzzle out, even to its minutest details. He
had a warm and charitable heart, and kindly
helped them out of all their difficulties. There
was not one of them who would not have been
a gainer if he could have stepped out of his
own wretched, vicious life into the happy and
prosperous lot which Henry provided for him.

In Hempstead, a little New England village

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

where Henry Craig lived, nothing of any conse-
quence ever happened ; at least so it seemed to
Henry. It had once been a flourishing town,
and some of the men most distinguished in our
colonial and revolutionary history had hailed
from it. But now most of the people were poor,
and the town had shrunk to
less than half its former size.
All the young people seemed
to think that Hempstead
was a good place to be bom
in ; but they always liked
it best after they had gone
away. The country about
the town was largely set-
tled with Irish and Scotch
peasants, who managed to
make a living out of the
farms upon which their
Yankee predecessors had
barely staved off starvation.
Henry's father, after having
struggled vainly to make
both ends meet, had in dis-
gust sold his homestead of
one hundred and eighty
acres for about one-half
of what the buildings alone
were worth ; and now the
Irishman who had bought
the farm was not only sup-
porting a large and cheer-
fully ragged family upon it,
but was laying up money.
And the secret of this Mr.
Craig soon discovered. The
Hibernian let his children
go half naked in summer;
he bought no books, read
no newspapers, employed
no servants ; and altogether he had reduced his
needs below the level of even humble living
according to the American standard.

Mr. Craig had many a time regretted that he
had parted with his ancestral acres. For the
grocery business which he was conducting in
town turned out to be in no wise so profitable
as he had expected, and it was, moreover, con-
fining, detrimental to his health. He had been
ambitious to provide his sons with an education
Vol. XVII —3.

which would enable them to rise in life, and it
was with a heavy heart that he finally bade fare-
well to this cherished dream. Frank, the eldest,
who, in the father's judgment, was the cleverest of
the three, was sent to a neighboring town, where
he obtained a position as clerk in a dry-goods

l'AI'ERED THE
THEM,

WALLS WITH PICTURES, AND SAT BY THE HOUR STARING AT
MAKING OUT THE MOST ASTONISHING STORIES."

store. Anthony, who also was a promising lad,
helped Mr. Craig in his own business, and Henry,
the youngest, had for a while superintended a
news-stand, on which he had managed to lose
three or four dollars every month. Naturally
his father came to distrust his business ability,
when Henry repeated this experiment for six
months in succession. And when, finally, the news-
stand was abolished, Henry found rich compen-
sation for his loss, in the stock of illustrated

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

[Nov.

papers which were left on his hands and the
amusement which they afforded him. No end
of jibes he had to endure in consequence of his
disastrous business venture, but he bore them
all with patience. He gradually became recon-
ciled to the thought that he would never make
much of a success in business ; but, somehow, it
gave him no great uneasiness. A trifle shy he
was in his intercourse with other boys and a little
over-sensitive. That which interested him above
all things he dared not confide to any one ; for
he knew that it would afford a fine subject for
ridicule. Secretly he stole up to his " study "
every afternoon and regaled himself with the
imaginary events which befell his imaginary
heroes.

II.

When Henry was fourteen years old, his
father concluded that it was time for him to learn
a trade whereby he might make his living. But
all the trades which he proposed seemed equally
uninviting to the boy. He had lived so long in
a wonderland of his own, that all the careers
which actual life presented to a boy in his posi-
tion seemed poor and paltry by comparison. A
choice he had to make, however, — there was no
help for it, — and he chose the trade of a printer,
chiefly because it was in some way associated with
the illustrated papers from which he had derived
so much happiness. Perhaps an opportunity
would be afforded him to continue his excursions
into wonderland. Every newspaper had an ex-
change list, and perhaps he might contrive to
see the exchanges now and then, in the absence of
the editor. At all events, a printer Henry Craig
resolved to be, though in the dim future he saw
himself crowned with fame and honor, received
with brass bands, and speaking from platforms
to vast crowds of people. That he was to be
something great — he had no idea what — was
a foregone conclusion, and that his apprentice-
ship as a printer was to be merely the lowest rung
in the ladder of fame which he meant to mount,
seemed also quite probable. It was this vision
of future glory which made him endure the long
and tedious apprenticeship in the office of the
" Hempstead Bugle," where he set type day after
day and night after night, until his finger-tips
were numb and his back ached. However,

Mr. Martin, the editor, was a good-natured man,
who willingly lent him books and occasionally
spoke an encouraging word to him. But when
Henry, emboldened by this kindness, offered
one of his poems for the paper, the editor quite
changed his tune.

" Look here, young man," he said, " you are
getting too smart. Your business, as I under-
stand it, is to set type, not to furnish copy."

" This stuff here," he continued scornfully,
after having read the poem, " is the veriest drivel.
And then you rhyme room with fume ! If you
don't know better than that, you had better let
rhyming alone and stick to type-setting."

Henry felt terribly humiliated by this repri-
mand, and tried to accept Mr. Martin's ad-
vice " to let rhyming alone." But somehow he
found that a more difficult task than he had
thought it. The rhymes would come into his
head, however much he might try to banish
them; and though he did not flatter himself
that they were poetry, he did take pleasure in
them, and vaguely imagine that perhaps they
might point the way for him to the glory of
which he dreamed.

It happened during the third year of Henry's
apprenticeship, when he was seventeen years old,
that great preparations were made for the cele-
bration of the second centennial of the settlement
of Hempstead. A prize of one hundred dollars
was offered for the best poem on the occasion,
and the competition was thrown open to all
" poets who were natives of Hempstead, or de-
scended from Hempstead families." The wor-
thy selectmen who placed this restriction upon
the competition had probably no very clear idea
of what they were doing. It seemed desirable
to them to encourage home talent, and they
considered themselves excessively liberal in ad-
mitting the compositions of non-resident poets
"descended from Hempstead families."

When Henry Craigsaw this alluring announce-
ment in the " Bugle," — he had, in fact, himself set
it up, but the full meaning of it had not dawned
upon him until now, — his heart was fired with
a wild ambition. What if he wrote the poem and
won the one hundred dollars ? It was not so much
the money which he cared for, — though that, to
be sure, was an additional inducement, — as the
triumph over Mr. Martin who had sneered at

l8S 9 .]

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

his poetic aspirations. It was not once, but many
times, since he presented that unfortunate poem,
that the editor had addressed him as " ' the mute,
inglorious Milton,' " " the village Shakspere," etc.,
and asked him sarcastically how his muse was
thriving. Now Henry's opportunity had come to
prove that his talent was genuine, and he meant
to make the best of it. Eagerly he began to delve
into the history of the settlement and the early
days of the town ; and much interesting material
did he unearth. He stood at his case, setting
type automatically, but scarcely knowing what
he was doing. Sonorous lines hummed in his
brain, and surreptitiously he jotted them down
upon pieces of paper. It was on such an occa-
sion that he was responsible for a misprint which
caused no end of amusement in the town. In
an excerpt from a letter recording the travels
of a local statesman whose pretensions were all
out of proportion to his merit, he printed, " On
April 6th, at 2 p. 11., the Senator reached the
summit of the Asinine," instead of " the summit
of the Apennines."

He barely escaped discharge in consequence
of this blunder, and he surely would not have
escaped if Mr. Martin had known he had been
composing poetry during his working hours.

III.

Henry finished his Hempstead Centennial
Ode in good time and sent it to the judges signed
with the nom deplume," BunkerHill." Fourweeks
of feverish anxiety followed, during which he
found it difficult to apply himself to his work.
He had moments of the wildest exhilaration,
when he sang to himself and scarcely could keep
from dancing ; and there were hours of unrest
and depression during which he seemed to him-
self a presumptuous fool who would be sure,
sooner or later, to be covered with ridicule.
Probably some of the greatest men of New
England were trying for that one hundred dol-
lars; and what chance would a half-educated
boy have in competing with them ? When
he thought of Longfellow and Whittier and
Lowell, and the idea of his presuming to have
his callow rhymes compared with their mature
and noble verse, his ears burned uncomfortably.
But then, of course, he did not know that they

were among the competitors. He ardently
hoped that they had in this instance resisted
the temptation of the hundred dollars.

The fateful evening arrived at last. The select-
men, the judges, and as many of the citizens as
could crowd in, were assembled in the large town-
hall. It was understood that a number of unsus-
pected poets who, from regard for the public weal,
had practiced their art in secret, were sitting with
palpitating hearts in that audience, distracted by
hope and fear. There was a rumor, too, that some
literary celebrity had sent in an ode, but that
his claim to descent from a Hempstead family
would not bear examination. Some one who
professed to know declared, too, that his ode
would have had no chance anyway, as it did
not mention a single Hempstead family by name.
And, as every one knew, the intention was not
only to celebrate the founders of the town, but
also to reflect some little glory upon their de-
scendants of to-day, who had spent their lives
wearing holes in their honorable names.

Henry had been on hand early ; but, from
modesty, had taken a seat in the middle aisle,
not far from the door. The five judges — three
clergymen, a doctor, and a lawyer — came march-
ing up the aisle, two by two, with the odd lawyer
bringing up the rear. Henry gazed into their
faces with earnest scrutiny, but could discover
nothing which warranted him in entertaining
any hope. They looked absolutely non-commit-
tal. Very likely they had given the prize, without
knowing it, to Longfellow or Lowell ; for with
the fictitious names there was no possibility of
knowing whom they had favored.

Henry gave himself up to despair. He felt
so unutterably small and foolish. It was well
nobody knew that he had tried for the prize.
The eldest clergyman came forward and invoked
the Divine blessing upon the assembly.

Then a glee club, from a neighboring college,
mounted the platform and sang a patriotic song,
which was enthusiastically encored. The eight
collegians, who in the meanwhile had descended
into the audience, were obliged to reassemble,
and sang now :

" Said the bull-frog to the owl,
Oh, what '11 you have to drink ? "

which aroused even greater enthusiasm. When
at last quiet was restored, the chairman of the

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

[Nov.

committee, a Baptist minister, came forward necks, others tossed about uneasily in their seats

and made an endless speech concerning the and tried to look unconcerned.

significance of the occasion, the difficulties with " I hold in my hand," began the chairman,

which the committee had to contend, etc. He "an — an envelope."

possessed, in an eminent degree, the art of say- Nobody had been prepared for so startling an

ing in twenty words what might be said in two ; announcement. A few snickered ; some laughed

"ALL THE 1'LOPLE TURNED ADOUT TO LOOK AT HIM

and when he had finished Henry was so ex-
hausted that it seemed a matter of slight con-
sequence to him who had won the prize. His
interest revived quickly, however, when the
speaker turned to the legal member of the com-
mittee and received from him a sealed envelope.
Excited expectation was expressed in every
countenance. Some rose up and craned their

outright. Henry heaved a deep sigh, merely to
give vent to his agitation.

" This envelope," the chairman continued,
impressively, "contains the name of the success-
ful competitor — the author of the ode which
will be read at the centennial celebration — a
week hence. The committee does not as yet
know his, or her, real name. The name — the

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

alias, if I may so express myself — which he has
used is — 'Bunker Hill.' "

The name exploded in Henry's ears like the
report of a gun. The walls whirled about him.
The audience swam in a luminous mist. The
floor billowed under his feet. He clung on to
the bench in front of him with all his might, so
as to make sure that he was yet on the solid
earth.

"The gentleman — the lady — or I should
say — the poet signing himself 'Bunker Hill,'"
the minister went on, after having broken the
seal of the envelope, "is — is — that is to say — "
he hemmed and hawed as if he had difficulty
in pronouncing the name, "is a gentleman —
named — Henry Craig."

A strange hush fell upon the audience. Some
people thought there must be a mistake. Henry
Craig — nobody in the town knew any promi-
nent person of that name. Very likely it must
be a stranger. Nobody thought of the seven-
teen-year-old boy who was setting type in the
"Bugle" office.

" If Mr. Henry Craig is present in this audi-
ence," the reverend gentleman proceeded, " will
he kindly step up on this platform and receive
his reward ? "

Then, far back in the hall, a tall and slender
lad rose with a face pale with excitement. He
ran his hand nervously through his hair, pulled
himself together, and walked up the aisle. All
the people turned about to look at him. When
he had passed half a dozen benches, he felt a
pair of eyes keenly riveted upon him. He looked
up and met Mr. Martin's wondering gaze. Sur-
prise, pleasure, and also a shadow of doubt were

written all over the editor's features. But when
he had convinced himself that there was, indeed,
no mistake, up he sprang, waved his hat and
cried, " Three cheers for Henry Craig ! "

And the audience rose as one man and shouted
" Hurrah I " so that the windows of the old town-
hall rattled and the walls shook.

Henry never knew how he reached that plat-
form, received the hundred-dollar bill in an
envelope, and made his way back to his seat.
His heart was thumping away like a trip-hammer,
his blood w-as throbbing in his temples, and there
was a mist in his eyes which made all things dim.
He remembered that the people were thronging
about him, congratulating him, pressing his
hands, and a matronly lady kissed him and said:
" What a pity, my boy, that your mother did not
live to see this day."

IV.

This was the beginning, but it was by no means
the end, of Henry Craig's career. In fact, his ca-
reer is yet at its meridian, and his thousands of
readers hope he has yet many years of honor-
able usefulness before him.

When he had read his ode at the Hempstead
Centennial, a number of the wealthier citizens
became convinced that a boy who could write
so fine a poem at seventeen would, if he was
properly educated, in time become an honor
to his native town and State. They therefore
clubbed together, sent Henry to school, and
later to Harvard College. He has now won a
fair fame, and is one of the most promising of the
younger poets and novelists of the United States.

BLUE-EYED MARY.

By M. E. Wilkixs.

Single-eyed to child and sunbeam,
In her little grass-green gown,
Prim and sweet and fair as ever,
Blue-eyed Mary 's come to town.

Yes, you may, child, go to see her,
You can stay and play an hour ;
But be sweet and good and gentle :
Blue-eyed Mary is a flower.

she hung the
clothes on the
line. How the
wild things tossed and flickered in the light
breeze ! Dorothy had to laugh at the tangle
thev made of themselves, as she went busily on
with her work. And a pretty picture was she
with her golden curls shining in the early morn-
ing sunbeams, and her serene, bright face.

" Dorothy Dot, I 'm awful lonesome ! " cried
a voice hidden, half-smothered, in the empty
clothes-basket ; and a small boy clambered out
of the basket and peeped between the sheets
blowing in the wind.

" Come to breakfast then, good little man,"
cried Dorothy, whisking up the basket as she
started on a run to the cottage, followed closely
by her little brother, Billy.

Mr. Protheroe, the father of these children,
had charge of the light-house on Crab Island.
He was a faithful, true man, respected by all who
knew him. As for his wife, sweet woman, serenely
happy in her isolated home, she seldom visited
the mainland. To-day, however, repairs needed
in the bell-buoy, had taken Mr. Protheroe to the
town on the coast, and his wife had accompanied
him, to make some purchases of warm clothing
for the children.

Dorothy had risen to see her parents off at
four o'clock; and it was now only six, and here
was Billy lonesome already for his mother. But

the light-hearted girl knew it was in her power
to keep him happy, so she began to sing a merry
song as she set the bread and milk on the table.

The small white cottage was built within the
shadow of the light-house. More than once, dur-
ing some unusually fierce storm, the family had
been obliged to take refuge in the stronger build-
ing, fearing that the cottage might be swept away.
Behind the light-house, on the southern side of
the island, was a strip of herbage, green enough
to satisfy " old Molly," the complacent cow,
tethered to a post in the center. On either side
rocks stretched away to the sea. The straggling
shape of the island broke the force of the waves
ere they reached the beach on the mainland, so
that it was seldom difficult to navigate the waters
of the bay.

The breakfast was evidently much enjoyed, for
peals of laughter rippled on the breeze. When
it was over and the work in the cottage done,
Dorothy called Billy and went out into the sun-
shine.

What a lovely day ! Certainly Indian Summer
at last. The light fall of snow of a week before
had disappeared, and the sun was warm.

Oh, how- happy she felt in this gay sunshine !
No wonder that her voice rang out in merry
snatches of song. Suddenly some of the bright-
ness faded from her face and a thoughtful look
stole there with somewhat of a shadow. Yes,
there was one hitherto unrealized dream of bliss
in Dorothy's heart. She did so want to have a
" Thanksgiving Party." Mother told such lovely

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

stories of parties at the old homestead in Ver-
mont, that, had a fairy godmother appeared to
Dorothy to ask what gift she most desired in
the world, the answer would have come at once,
" Oh, how I should like a Thanksgiving party,
with real live people, lots and lots of children,
and games and stories by the firelight ! " She
had lived all the fifteen years of her life on the
lonely island.

" Dorothy Dot! see how low the tide is. The
' Old Crab ' is out of water."

Now the " Old Crab " was a dangerous rock,
only bare at exceptionally low tides, and it was
bare that day. There he lay with the one claw
upraised, the clutch of which had often proved
disastrous to vessels before the Government had
placed near it a bell-buoy, to ring unceasing
notes of warning at the ebb and flow of the tide.

" Let us go down to the buoy and look for
sea-mosses," cried Dorothy, as she realized that
the great rock was out of water.

The two children climbed actively over the
rocks. Soon they stood upon the " Old Crab's "
back, and even danced up and down on his
massive head.

" It is a dangerous rock ! " cried Dorothy,
seriously, as she looked over the jagged edge.
Then, climbing up the claw to the broken bell-
buoy, she continued, " But all the pilots know
of the ' Crab.' Surely they will avoid it even
though the buoy is broken."

" They can't see it in the dark," cried practical
Billy, as he floated a stranded star-fish in a pool
in the rocks.

" But there will be moonlight to-night ; they
can see the rock quite well. Still I do wish the
bell would swing." Then she was hidden behind
the huge claw, and Billy knew she was reach-
ing to the buoy for the sea-mosses which clung
to its sides. Presently she touched the bell and
made it ring. How loud its voice sounded in
the stillness !

Dorothy clambered back to her brother's side,
and, setting the bucket in the pool, began to
show him the mosses she had gathered.

" It 's Thanksgiving to-morrow," said Billy, ir-
relevantly. " Are n't we going to have chicken-
pie, Dorothy Dot ? "

" Of course we are," assented she; "and we '11
pretend we have a party, — shall we, Billy ? "

Billy was of a social turn of mind, so he
nodded. " I want a boy to play with," he said.
Neither of the children went often to the main-
land, and of course few visitors ever came to the
rocky island.

When dinner-time came, the children ran
back to the cottage, and Dorothy hastened to
set the table.

But, by the time the meal was finished, the
dazzling blue of the sea had changed to gray.
" White horses " rode the riotous waves, leaping
in on the Crab's back, and over the claw, break-
ing into foam that was blown over the green by
the wild wind. Overhead, dense cloud-banks
rose from the horizon to the zenith, and obscured
the sun; then, drifting on, they were swept wind-
ward until the sky was covered. Sea-gulls, beat-
ing against the stiff breeze, flew inland, making
dismal outcry as they hovered over the light-
house, or sought shelter among the rocky ledges
below.

" I don't like this," said Dorothy Dot, as she
went to the door and glanced anxiously round.
Then, as no warning note rang from the bell-
buoy, she scanned the seas for a sail.

" Oh, I hope no ship will come along to-
night," she exclaimed.

" Dorothy, how can Mother get home?"

" Oh," she replied, serenely, " Father will bring
her safely. You know the bay will not be rough,
as the ocean is."

It grew cold as the warm sun of Indian Sum-
mer was hidden by the clouds. Dorothy went
into the cottage, and an hour flew fast as she
began to mount the sea-mosses. Still she was
conscious all the time of the rising wind and sea.
At length she threw a shawl over her head and
went out. Billy watched her fighting the wind
as she ran up to the steps of the light-house.
Then he saw her look anxiously out to sea, and
he was sure something was wrong when she
came running back to the cottage.

" Billy, darling Billy, will you stay here ? " she
cried.

Billy jumped from his chair, suspiciously.

" Not without you, Dorothy Dot. I should
be lonesome. I 'm going with you, Dorothy
Dot."

And together they ran down to the one
small sand-beach.

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING TARTY.

[Nov.

"Oh, Dorothy Dot!" and "Oh, Billy!" ex-
claimed the brother and sister, shocked at the
sight before them.

For the huge claw of the stony monster had
once more done deadly work ! The leaping waves
had hid the danger, and the deep seas surround-
ing the Crab had deceived the pilot, now the
warning voice of the bell was mute. A ship
riding on a rising wave had struck, and, with

" And a baby ! There 's a baby in her arms,"
cried Billy. " And there 's a boy just my size
there, too."

The boats one after another were lowered and
broken to pieces by the jagged rocks. Dorothy
looked around almost frantic, wondering what
she could do to help them. Her father would
have rowed out to the wreck, but — could she, all
alone ? She saw Billy's eager eye glance toward

"AS IT ROSE ON THE NEXT WAVE, THE SA1LOK .MANAGED TO CLIMB

(SEE NEXT PAGE.;

her rudder gone, was helplessly beating shore-
ward among the jagged rocks.

" Oh, if Father was only here," cried Dorothy,
in despair. " They are going to launch the boats,
and the current there will carry them on the
rocks as soon as they reach the water. Oh ! oh ! "

Not only were Dorothy's fears verified by the
loss of the boat launched, but at this moment
the ship, plunging wildly, struck again on the
claw, and was jammed between the head and
neck of the monster Crab, and for a moment
was still.

" Now 's the time," shouted Dorothy, waving
her arms wildly to attract the attention of the
crew. " Oh, I see a woman on board ! "

the boat, high on the beach. With his help she
could push it down to the water's edge, and per-
haps Father would soon be home, and then —

By this time her thoughts had become actions.
Billy was helping her with the boat.

" I 'm going with you, Dorothy Dot," said he.

The boat was now ready to be launched. The
children stood on the beach, however, waiting to
see what they could possibly do to help the peo-
ple in the wrecked ship. Dorothy knew quite
well that she dared not venture near the currents
which swept round the Old Crab.

Just then a sailor appeared on the bulwarks.
He had a rope tied round his waist, and it was
evident that he meant to swim ashore. The chil-

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

dren watched him breathlessly for a moment, and
then they looked at one another as the same
thought flashed through their minds. For it
was quite plain, now, what they must do, and
Dorothy pushed at the boat with all her strength
as the man's head came above the waves after
his plunge from the ship. He was a magnificent
swimmer, she could see, but it was a long dis-
tance to the shore, and the water was very cold at
this season. If only she could reach him before
he became exhausted, fighting with the waves !

Billy came splashing into the shallow water,
but his sister was too quick for him; she pushed
off, leaving the little fellow dancing with rage on
the beach.

" For Billy will be safe, if I don't get back,"
Dorothy was saying to herself as she rowed
toward the sailor. " Father would wish me to
do this, I know, as he can not come himself."

She had seen her father risk his life in the per-
formance of his duty too often to doubt that he
would have her also do so. She was not afraid.
True, she had never taken the boat out alone,
in such a sea as this, but then she knew every
rock on the reef — knew, too, where she would
escape the roughest part of the tide, and how
best to meet the breakers that unceasingly beat
against this rock-bound coast. Besides this, she
was as much at home in a boat as ashore, and
her father had trained her to row a steady stroke.
Her chief difficulty lay in the fact that she could
barely see, over the tossing, swirling waves,
whether she was steering straight toward the
sailor, who made his way on by diving through
some of the breakers, and thus was frequently
lost to view. .Her boat was less manageable,
too, than it would have been with some one
astern to keep the balance true. But if she did
not see the sailor, he was quick to see her, as he
came up on a wave, and the people on board
the ship cheered as he struck out more vigor-
ously than ever in the direction of the boat.

Dorothy in the boat and the sailor in the water
together held the lives of the crew in their hands.
But at the present moment all the girl's anxiety
was merged in the fear that the man's strength
would give out before she reached him ; and he
was only afraid that she, a mere child, would lose
command of the boat as it came further out into
the heavier breakers.
Vol. XVII.— 4.

2 5

The people clinging to the wreck, who in-
cluded the captain's wife and children, in addi-
tion to the crew, watched the boat as it tossed
up and down, with agonized expectation. Could
it live in such a sea?

Dorothy gave a cry of joy as she saw two brown
hands suddenly clutch the stern of the boat; and
as it rose on the next wave the sailor managed
to climb in. He was very much exhausted, for
the water was bitterly cold, and had not the
boat been opportunely driven near to him, he
must soon have given up all hope of reaching
shore alive.

Dorothy steered for the little sand-beach,
where poor Billy was still rushing up and down
in excitement. The waves helped her now,
though in extremely rough fashion. Presently
the sailor, recovering his breath, took one oar,
and in a short time the boat was beached.

" God bless you, little girl ! " cried the man,
as he ran up to the rocks with his rope, which he
pulled tight and fastened securely. Upon it
another sailor crossed, hand over hand, bearing
a slighter rope which was fastened to a basket
on the wreck. In this basket two of the captain's
children were securely tied, and by means of a
block and tackle were carried over on the large
rope in safety.

Would there still be time to save the mother
and baby ? The sailors looked doubtfully at the
huge waves, which reared their mighty crests
high above the claw, and broke over it upon
the deck of the vessel. If those waves should
lift the ship from the rock and set her adrift
again, all on board must be lost.

Dorothy thought she would never forget
those anxious minutes while the woman was
being brought off in the basket. It seemed as
if the waves, jealous of losing their prey, strove
fiercely to outleap one another as they surged
and foamed angrily round the basket.

" Oh, she must be drowned, after all," cried
Dorothy. " Can't we do anything better than
this ? "

The men did not answer. Their steady, strong
arms held the rope and they were drawing the
basket nearer and nearer.

A few more minutes of suspense, then a cheer
rose from the wreck ; the sailors ashore had hold
of the basket. Dorothy unclasped her hands to

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

receive a tiny baby muffled up in wraps. She
sat down on the beach to peep at it.

" It is alive ! " she cried, joyfully. " Oh, I was
afraid it would be drowned."

" And the mother 's alive too, but wet to the
skin. I 'd take 'em in to the fire, if I was you,"
said the sailor.

But the captain's wife, regardless of her wet
garments, would not leave the beach until she
could see her husband safe at her side.

The crew did not wait to be carried in the
basket ; they clambered along on the rope, and
at last only the captain was left on the wreck.

He seemed to be hunting for something on
the decks, but finally appeared on the bulwarks
with a bundle tied upon his breast.

The delay almost cost him his life, for when
he was half-way across, the rope parted, as a
huge billow, lifting the wreck, set it adrift among
the rocks, at the will of the waves. The sailors
manned the boat, and pulled toward their cap-
tain with a will. As he was a strong swimmer, he
managed to keep up until they arrived to help
him. His poor wife watched and prayed by
turns, almost beside herself with anxiety.

When at length he stood safely at her side, he
opened the bundle on his breast. Out flew the
ship's cat, more than indignant at the soaking
to which she had been subjected, and ungrate-
fully scratched her kind friend as she wildly
sprang out of his arms, and rushed away with
tail held high in air.

As Dorothy led the way to the cottage, she
explained that the absence of her father was
the reason she had taken the boat out alone.

It was growing dark. The captain pointed to
the light-house.

" Give us the keys, daughter. We '11 take
care of the lamp for him."

" Oh, Father will be back," she replied, tran-
quilly. " He has had to go a long way round
to avoid the currents, or he would have been
here long ago."

The captain and sailors glanced sadly at one
another; they feared the little maid's father

would never be able to reach the island alive,
in so terrible a sea.

But five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Proth-
eroe came in. Dorothy never knew the deadly-
peril in which her parents had been during that
half hour.

Little need to tell of the cordial welcome
they gave their unexpected guests, or of their
joy when they found their brave Dorothy had
done her duty so well. When her father put
his hand on her head, and said, " You did well,
my Dot. God bless you ! " she felt happy and,
gay as a lark, she went singing about her work.
All the praises and thanks of the guests seemed
worth nothing in comparison with such rare
words from her reticent father. Billy too was
in a gay mood; he was busy interviewing the
captain's little boy, but his powers of expression
were a little modified, as he had screamed him-
self as hoarse as a heron in the afternoon.

The gale increased in fury during the night,
and raged throughout Thanksgiving Day. No
one could get to the mainland, so Dorothy's
desire for a " real live party " was amply fulfilled.
After dinner the old folks played games with the
children, and the captain played Billy's mouth-
organ so musically that the sailors danced in
their very best manner. Once or twice Dorothy
pinched herself to make sure all this was really
happening : that it was not a dream, nor one
of mother's lovely stories of the olden days at
the homestead.

But no ! The solemn voice of the Storm Spirit
rang from the ocean. The winds howled ; the
waves broke into cataracts of foam over the
" Old Crab's " hideous claw, and roared sullenly
amid the rocky clefts in the gullies.

Yet, indoors there was the true Thanksgiving
spirit of cheer. Dorothy Dot, as night drew on,
sat at her father's feet, the flames from the drift-
wood fire flashing on her golden curls, her rosy
cheeks glowing with excitement. And as the
sailors began to spin their wonderful yarns, she
gave a sigh of perfect contentment.

Happy " Dorothy Dot ! "

A STORY OF A HORSE.

By Captain C. A. Curtis, U. S. A.

I MAKE HIS ACQUAINTANCE.

I was acting-quartermaster of a command
composed of two companies, which garrisoned
a log fort near Prescott, Arizona, during the
years 1864 and 1865. The fort was an inclosure
of some three hundred feet square, built of thick
pine-logs set up vertically in the ground, with
regular block-house bastions, of the colonial
period, at diagonal corners; and it had huge
gates of hewn timber that swung ponderously
on triple iron hinges. The fort stood on a
slight elevation overlooking the post corral, a
structure built of the same material and in the
same general manner as the fort, but inclosing
a much larger space. In this corral were gath-
ered nightly the horses of the cavalry troop, the
horses and mules of the quartermaster, and the
three hundred head of cattle and one thousand
sheep of the commissary.

The presence of these animals grazing through
the days on the hill-sides and plains about our
reservation was a special and alluring tempta-
tion to the marauding Apaches and Navajos,
and frequent chases and skirmishes were neces-
sary in order to protect our stock.

The garrison consisted of one company of
regular infantry and one troop of New Mexican
volunteer cavalry. The men composing the
troop were, with a few exceptions, Mexicans,
speaking the Spanish language, and using tactics
translated into that tongue.

The troop had arrived in January, after a long
and fatiguing march of seven hundred miles,
and two days after their arrival their captain
had turned over to me sixteen worn-out, broken-
down, sick, and generally decrepit horses. Ac-
cording to custom in such cases, I receipted for
them, and in due time ordered them sold at pub-
lic auction to the highest bidder.

On the morning of the day appointed for the

sale to take place, the fifer of the infantry com-
pany, a neat Irish soldier, known among his
comrades as Joe Cain, who acted as my attend-
ant and a general guardian of my belongings,
paused in the doorway, and, raising his right
hand to his cap- visor, asked if he " could spake
t' the Liftinent ? " As I nodded, he asked :

" Would the Liftinent like to buy a fine horse ? "

" No, Cain. I have no use for two horses,
and I can not afford the expense of another."

" But you can buy this one for little or noth-
ing, sor."

" How much ? "

'■If the Liftinent will let me have five dollars,
I '11 buy him the bist horse in the post."

" The best horse in the post for five dollars !
What kind of nonsense are you talking, Cain ? "
and I turned to some papers on my table which
demanded my signature. But Cain lingered in
the doorway at a respectful " attention," and
when I signed the last paper his hand went up
again to his visor and remained there until I said :

" Well, what more have you to say ? "

" If the Liftinent will buy the horse I spake of,
he will niver repint of his bargin. I 've known
the baste for tin years, sor, — from the time I
jined as a music b'y at Fort Craig, sor."

" He must be an exceedingly old horse, then,"
I said.

"Nobody knows his age, sor; he's a vit-
eran ; but he 's a fine horse, all the same, sor."

" But I do not need another horse for my
duties, Cain, as I told you just now; and I
should have to buy his hay and grain, and that
is an expense I do not care to be put to, with no
prospect of a profitable return."

" There nade be no expinse, sor. There is a
sorplus of forage in the corral, and the forage-
master '11 let me have all I 'm wantin' if the Lif-
tinent will jist give him the laste bit of a hint."

More to please a valued and trustworthy at-
tendant than with any hope of securing a good

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

horse, I gave Cain the desired five dollars. I
learned, in further conversation, that the won-
derful steed he proposed to buy for me was one
of the lot to be sold at auction.

I did not attend the sale of the sixteen horses.
I simply noticed that the Government money
account had increased seventy-five dollars by
the auction, showing plainly enough that the
value of the whole number was a little less
than five dollars each. A whole month had
passed, and I had entirely forgotten that I had
given Cain the five dollars for the purchase of
a horse, when one day, as I again sat writing
in my room, I heard the rapid clatter of hoofs
approaching, and presently noticed that a horse
had stopped outside. I stepped to the door
and found Joe Cain awaiting my arrival, hold-
ing by the halter-strap a fine, large bay horse,
in good flesh, smooth as satin, and bright-eyed
as a colt. " Will the Liftinent plaze to come out
and inspict his horse ? " said Cain; and then he
led him about on exhibition. I was pleased to
find that the horse, while in no wise remarkable,
showed many good points. In fact, the animal
was a great surprise to me. I sat down on a
log which had been rejected in the building of
the fort, and looked long at the metamorphosed
creature before I spoke.

" So that is the horse you bought for five dol-
lars, is it, Cain ? " I began.

" Four dollars and forty cints, sor. I bought
the halter with the sixty cints that was lift, sor."

" But I don't see how such a horse could be
had for that money. And this is really one of
those miserable hacks we sold at auction ? "

" Not a bit else, sor," said the delighted
Cain, his face in a glow from the pleasure he
was deriving from my wonderment and evident
approval of the result of his venture.

" Has he a name ? " I asked.

" ' Two-Bits,' sor."

" ' Two-Bits ' — twenty-five cents ! — how did
he get that name, Cain ? "

" He won it at Fort Craig, sor, in a race in

'S9-"

In answer to further questions and after some
irrelevant talk, Cain, having tied the horse to a
tree, walked slowly backward and forward be-
fore me, and proceeded to give the history of
the horse so far as he knew it, and his reasons

for asking me to make the purchase. When he
went into the corral one day, he said, he saw
one of the stable-men kicking and beating an
old steed to make him rise to his feet. The
animal made repeated efforts to stand, but each
time fell back through weakness. Cain ap-
proached, and, by certain saddle-marks and a
peculiar star in the forehead, recognized an old
acquaintance. He even insisted that the old
horse knew him. From some knowledge of
horses, picked up in a stable during a wander-
ing life before he enlisted, the soldier perceived,
after a careful examination, that the horse was
not permanently disabled, but simply suffering
from ill-treatment and neglect. He began his
care of the beast at once, and as soon as the
auction was ordered, he determined to ask me
to buy him.

The first knowledge Cain had of Two-Bits,
was that the horse belonged to the Mounted
Rifles and was with them at Fort Craig in New
Mexico, in 1859. On Fourth of July of that
year, the officers of the fort and the civilians of
the neighboring ranches got up a horse-race by
way of celebrating the day. The races were
to be, one for American horses, over an eight-
hundred-yards straightaway course, and one for
broncos, over a course of three hundred yards.
On the day before the race, the first sergeant of
the Rifles waited upon a lieutenant of the regi-
ment and requested him to enter a " company
horse," — one which had been assigned as a
mount to one of their number. The request
was granted. All the horses were to be ridden
by soldiers.

At two o'clock on the afternoon of the Fourth
the horses were assembled at the course to the
west of the fort, Two-Bits being present and
mounted by the boy-fifer, Joe Cain, of the infan-
try. The officers walked around the " company
horse " with considerable curiosity, commenting
on his appearance, and wondering how, if he
possessed any merits, he had escaped their no-
tice up to this time. Captain Tilford seemed to
express the general sentiment of the officers, at
the conclusion of the inspection, when he said,
" I would not give two bits for that horse's
chance of winning the prize."

The race came off, and the carefully groomed
and gayly caparisoned horses of the officers and

is8 9 .;

A STORY OF A HORSE.

civilians, and the plainly equipped favorite of
the soldiers burst down the track in line, to ar-
rive scattered and blown at the goal, with the
despised " company horse " some three lengths
ahead. And from that day the victor was
known as "Two- Bits."

With the breaking out of the Civil War all
mounted regiments were made cavalry. This
wiped out of existence the two dragoon regi-
ments and the rifle regiment, the latter being re-
christened the Third Cavalry, and ordered from
New Mexico to the East, for service in the field.
Their horses were left behind, being turned over
to the New Mexico volunteer cavalry. Two-
Bits was assigned to the troop which was then
a part of the garrison of Fort Whipple. In the
march from the valley of the Rio Grande to the
valley of the Rio Colorado he had succumbed
to Mexican neglect and abuse, and fallen a vic-
tim to hard usage. And so, by a mere chance,
the meeting took place between the veteran
steed and his former jockey of the Fort Craig
race. Cain had recognized his old friend of five
years before, and knowing that he would not be
allowed to own a horse, he did the next best
thing, — made me his owner, which gave him the
care of the animal, and frequent opportunities
to take him out for an airing.

From this time on, I had many long rides on
Two-Bits, in the weary and tiresome pursuit of
the Indians, who never neglected to take advan-
tage of the unprotected state of the Territory.
I became very much attached to the horse and
even took pains to win a place in his affections,
often being much surprised at his wonderful in-
telligence and almost human discernment. He
would never desert his rider in a place of dan-
ger, no matter what the temptation. Three or
four times when taking him out for exercise,
Cain had dismounted for some purpose and
Two-Bits had immediately kicked up his heels
like a colt and trotted back to his stall in the
corral.* But once at a good distance from the
post or train, or in a situation of danger, and
he would stay by his rider when free to go.
This statement may appear doubtful to many,
but every man who was stationed at Fort Whip-
ple during the time Two- Bits occupied a stall
there, believed more than I have stated. Two
instances, which I will relate, so impressed me

that I can have but one opinion of this noble
old horse. Once, when I had ridden down the
valley of the Rio Verde, some thirty miles from
the fort, on a solitary fishing excursion, I strolled
along its banks for several hours, standing by
pools and handling a rod, while a carbine rested
in my left elbow and two revolvers hung at my
waist. I looked over my shoulders for Indians
more frequently than the fish favored me with
bites. Suddenly, Two- Bits, who had been graz-
ing close by, unpicketed, came trotting down to
me in considerable excitement. Without stop-
ping to inquire the cause I dropped fishing-tackle
and basket, mounted and rode to an eminence,
from which I saw, on the opposite side of the
stream, half a mile away, a party of mounted
Apaches who had not been visible from my
fishing-place because of a fringe of willows. As
soon as they discovered me they whooped and
gave chase; but the long legs of Two-Bits made
nothing of running away from them, and I was
soon far beyond their reach.

The second incident occurred when I was
returning from a visit of inspection to a hay-
camp ten miles from the post. I was riding at
a walk along a level road, which was skirted on
my left by thick sage-brush. My left foot was
out of the stirrup. A sudden shot from cover
cut my coat-collar and caused the horse to jump
suddenly to the right. Having no support
on my left, and being taken off my guard, I top-
pled from the saddle and fell to the ground, but
fortunately landed on my feet and facing the
ambuscade, so I quickly covered the spot with
my rifle. Two-Bits did not stir after I fell, and
I walked backwards around to his right side,
and mounted in reverse of custom, still covering
the possible enemy, and rode away, first slowly
and then at a run, until beyond rifle-range. Then
I saw three Apaches rise from the brush.

Again, when Lieutenant R and myself,

with ten men, had been four days in pursuit of
a band of Indians that had run off the stock
from a neighboring ranch, we found one of our
men unable to sit in his saddle from wounds.
We removed the saddle from his horse and
bound him at length along the back, and did
our best to make him as comfortable as pos-
sible. He rode along quietly for some time, and
then asked to be put on Two-Bits. After this,

* To show that he was no respecter of persons, I must admit that he twice did the same thing for me.

3°

the horse was a greater favorite than ever with
the men. Not one of our party could have
been made to believe that Two-Bits did not
understand the necessity of treading gently with
his sensitive burden ; and I must admit that
when our road lay down some bowlder-strewn
declivity, the horse seemed careful to select the
places for his feet, and certainly was tediously
slow. I confess I am of the opinion of the
men; I believe the horse fully understood the
condition of his charge, and the necessity of
going slowly and gently in rough places. The
man reached the post hospital in safety and re-
covered; and from the day of his recovery Two-
Bits had another devoted friend and guardian.

II.

HIS SECOND RACE.

As the Fourth of July, 1865, approached, in
the dearth of other material and the abundance
of horses, the citizens of Prescott determined
to offer a series of horse and pony races as attrac-
tions, and there was at once considerable excite-
ment in horse circles in consequence. Officers
of the garrison caught the excitement and vied
with the ranchmen and miners, and began look-
ing over their favorites with a view to capturing
the various bridles, saddles, etc., offered as prizes.

One race was to be for American horses only,
this name being used to distinguish the cavahy
horses and those brought from the East, from
the mustangs, Texas ponies, and broncos. The
gait for all horses was to be a run, under the
saddle, over distances ranging from five hundred
to eight hundred yards, according to whether
the contestants belonged to one or the other
of the classes mentioned, — the longer distance
being for the American horses.

A few days after the conditions of the race
were published, Cain proposed that I should
enter Two-Bits for the eight-hundred-yards race,
assuring me that if I would do so I was sure to
win the prize. But I pooh-poohed the sug-
gestion at once, and even ridiculed Cain for his
folly in imagining for a moment that Two-Bits
could compete with such steeds as were already
entered. I soon found that I had plunged the
ambitious fifer into the depths of despair. For
several days he moped about his duties in a

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

silent and dejected manner, until his evident
misery aroused my compassion. So one morn-
ing after he had completed the housework of
my quarters, I asked him to remain a few mo-
ments, and then referred to the subject, which I
knew had full possession of his thoughts, with
the question :

" You do not suppose, Cain, that so old a
horse as Two- Bits would stand any chance in
this race ? "

" He would, jist, sor ! " he answered with em-
phasis.

" But he is very old, Cain. He must be
twenty, at the very least."

" Yis, sor, and he grows faster as he grows
older, sor."

Evidently there was no use in arguing against
Two- Bits, with a person so prejudiced as Cain;
but I continued :

" Your love for your old favorite, Cain, mis-
leads you as to his capabilities. I know him to
be easy and free under the saddle, and the best
horse I ever rode, but it is not reasonable to
expect him, at his age, to beat young horses,
after all the ill-treatment he has undergone."

" I wish the Liftinent would jist give me the
thrial of him, that 's all. There 's not a baste in
these parts can bate him ! "

" But you are not reasonable about this, Cain.
Because Two-Bits won a race five years ago,
it does not follow that he can do so now. There
is that fine black of King Woolsey's — what pos-
sible chance is there that any horse in Arizona
can take the lead of him ? "

" That 's jist it, sor. The consate of that man
Woolsey nades a rebuke, sor. Two-Bits can
give him one, asy. I know the horse, sor. If
the Liftinent will pardon an ould soldier for mak-
in' so bould as to sit up an opinion ag'inst his,
I beg lave to remoind him that I have rode the
winning horse at miny a race in the ould coun-
try and in this ; and while I 'm free to admit
that Two-Bits does not aquel the racin'-stock
o' the quality and gintry, he is far beyant any-
thing this side o' the wather."

" Well, Cain, leave me now to consider the
matter, and call again in an hour."

Left alone, I was not long in coming to the
conclusion that the soldier should be indulged
in his wish to enter Two-Bits for the race. Ac-

A STORY OF A HORSE.

cordingly, when the fifer returned for my de-
cision, I said :

" I am going to allow you to run him, Cain.
I look upon the horse as your discovery. He
has cost me literally nothing."

" Thank you, sor, and you '11 win the prize,"
said Cain.

" No ; I don't care for the prize. I will pay
the entrance fee, and if you win the race the prize
shall be your own."

When I recalled the many evidences I had
had of Two-Bits' speed in pursuit of Indians, and
in retreats when the Indian in turn was pursuer,
and my life had depended upon his gait and his
endurance, I could not but hope he would win.

On the day of the race I sat, by no means a
calm and disinterested spectator, on a bench
near the goal. After the race of ponies, mus-
tangs, and broncos, came the principal race —
that of American horses. I will spare the
reader details of the race further than to say
that, to the surprise of everybody but Joe Cain, it
ended as at Fort Craig. Two-Bits came in with
dilated nostrils and blazing eyes, amid the thun-
dering cheers of the soldiers, fully two lengths
ahead. Cain led him back to the fort, escorted
the whole distance by admiring blue-coats. At
the stables, Cain sat on an inverted grain-meas-
ure and told over for the hundredth time the
way the horse received the name Two-Bits, and
how he had discovered the old horse, friend-
less and broken down, in the Whipple corral,
and having built him up to his present beau-
tiful proportions, had once more ridden him to
victory.

I have related the foregoing incidents in an
attempt to interest the reader in the personality
of my horse. He is the hero of the story —
the men are only accessories. The incident to
which all this is a preface must have a chapter
by itself.

III.

HE RUNS COURIER.

In the fall of the year 1865, the Indian
troubles became so serious that only with the
greatest difficulty could we maintain our com-
munications with the outer world. Every little
while an express-rider would fail to make his

appearance when due, and an expedition sent
in search of him often found his body in the
road, in some rugged defile or thick chaparral,
stripped, scalped, and disfigured, the contents
of the express-pouch scattered for yards around,
all letters broken open, and the illustrated papers
torn into shreds, while the newspapers were sim-
ply thrown aside. The peril became so great
in time that single riders could not be hired for
the service, and at last only cavalrymen in par-
ties of five were sent on this dangerous duty.
Even numbers was not always a protection, as
I once found when, sent to look for a missing
express, I discovered all the men dead together.

On the 20th of October a dispatch was re-
ceived with accompanying instructions that it
should be forwarded without delay to Santa Fe.
Accordingly, I advertised for an express-rider,
offering the highest pay allowed for the service.
The route on the northeast was not considered
to be so dangerous as those lying to the east,
south, or west. Still there was no response to
my offer, and I began to consider the expediency
of asking for a detail from the cavalry, when a
proposition came from an unexpected quarter.
The man whom I have before mentioned as
having been wounded during an Indian expe-
dition and brought to the fort on the back of
Two-Bits, came into my office, and offered to
carry the dispatch, provided I would let him
ride Two-Bits.

This man's name was Porter. He was a
Londonderry Irishman by birth and was now
sergeant in the infantry company. Years after-
wards we learned that he was of gentle descent,
and a graduate of Edinburgh University. He
was a handsome, soldierly fellow, of refined
features, gentlemanly bearing, good height, and
undoubted courage. He entered my office, as
1 before stated, and said he would take the
mail to Fort Wingate if I would lend him
Two-Bits.

'• But Two-Bits is my private property, Ser-
geant, and is not subject to such service," I
replied.

" I know that, sir; but he has many qualities
which fit him for it."

" Not more than half a dozen other horses in
the corral, Sergeant."

" No horse has just his qualities, sir. He is

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

especially fitted for dangerous service such
as this. He is fleet, he will not whinny nor
do anything to attract attention in an Indian
country. He will not desert his rider if turned
loose, and he will not be stampeded if his rider
sleeps while he grazes."

" You seem to have studied his character
well."

" Yes, sir, I know Two-Bits very well ; but
not better than yourself, or most of the men of
the garrison. He is a remarkable horse. He is
well drilled and he is very intelligent. He always
seems to understand what is expected of him."

" But really, Sergeant, I do not like to let
him go on such a trip. I fear I should never
see him again. The trip would be a tremendous
strain upon the old horse."

" He shall have the tenderest care, sir. I
will treat him as he deserves."

" I have no doubt of that, Sergeant. He
would be treated well by all of our men. In
fact, he is always made a pet of by every one.
I will think of it. Call again later."

After Sergeant Porter went out, I walked over
to the quarters of the commanding officer and
told him of the proposition. He at once fell in
with the plan and advised me to let the horse
go. He said the horse could not be in better
hands, and that doubtless he would go through
safely, without fatigue, and return to me in a few
weeks. He said he would convene a board of
officers to appraise the horse, so that if he should
be lost I could put in a claim for reimbursement.
I agreed, and next day the board sat and ap-
praised the value of my five-dollar horse at
nearly $200 in gold.

On the morning of the 25th of October, Ser-
geant Porter, mounted on Two- Bits, rode out of
Fort Whipple, amid the hearty good wishes and
handshakes of men and officers. He carried
a mail pouch weighing twenty pounds, an over-
coat and three blankets, a carbine and two re-
volvers, and six days' rations.

The adventures of horse and rider, after we
saw them disappear behind the " red rocks," five
miles below the fort, were related to me in 1867,
at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, by Porter, who
had in the mean time been appointed a lieuten-
ant in the army. I had not seen him since he
started on his journey.

For three days the ride was without incident
worth relating. On the fourth he did not leave
his stopping-place until one o'clock in the after-
noon. At two o'clock he found himself on the
crest of a range of hills overlooking a plain
which extended right and left almost to the
horizon, and in front at least twenty miles, to
the broken and hilly country beyond. It was as
level as the surface of a lake. From the edge
of the plain stretched the narrow thread of the
Military road, straight across to the foot-hills
beyond. The road down the declivity to the
plain being rough and stony, the sergeant dis-
mounted and followed his horse, allowing him
to pick his way and take his own gait. When
he arrived at the foot of the range, he noticed
that there lay between him and the plain, and
parallel to its edge, a long low ridge. He halted
in the ravine formed by the ridge and the foot-
hills to tighten girth and straps and readjust his
luggage before taking the road over the plain.
While engaged in this operation, Porter noticed
that, at the point where he stood, the road
divided into two ; these passed over the ridge
a hundred yards apart, descended on the other
side, and met again in one road about a mile
out on the plain. The reason for this division
was that the left-hand road had become badly
gullied in one of the rare and violent rainfalls
peculiar to that region, and the wagoners had
made a new one to avoid its roughness.

Finishing the adjustment of the saddle and its
attached parcels, the sergeant still postponed re-
mounting, and followed his horse slowly up the
ridge, leaving the choice of roads to the animal,
it being a matter of indifference to a horseman
whether the road was gullied or not. Two-Bits
took the left-hand road, and moved leisurely up
the slope, raising his head high as he approached
the crest to look beyond it. Suddenly he stopped
and stood perfectly rigid, his ears set forward
and his eyes fixed upon some object, evidently
in alarm. Porter crept carefully forward and
looked beyond the ridge. Behind a mass of
granite bowlders which skirted the left of the
other road, four Indian ponies could be seen
picketed. Evidently their riders were among
the rocks watching for the express-rider they
had seen descending from the range. They
naturally supposed that he would pass along the

>-]

A STORY OF A HORSE.

usually traveled road. Nothing but the acci-
dent that Two-Bits took the old road prevented
the sergeant from falling into the ambuscade
and ending his life there. From the old road
the ponies were plainly visible in a nook among
the bowlders ; from the newer road they could
not have been seen.

The sergeant backed Two- Bits sufficiently to
put him out of sight of the Indians. When all
was ready, Porter patted the old horse affection-
ately on the neck and said, " Now, old fellow,

he could reload without a second's delay, and,
aiming carefully, fired, killing the pony instantly.
He reloaded, and as an Indian sprang from
cover to see where the shot came from, he caught
the second bullet and fell across the dead pony.
Not another Indian showed himself until Porter
was well out upon the plain ; then he heard
the shrill staccato of the Navajo war-whoop,
and glancing backward over his shoulder saw
three Indians pursuing at the top of their ponies'
speed. Two-Bits threw himself into the task

_J\fJ77«?^hl,

'will the i.iftinent plaze to come olt and inspict his horse?

everything depends upon your legs." Porter
always maintained that Two-Bits understood
the coming struggle as fully as he did himself.
When all was completed, Porter mounted and
rode slowly over the ridge and slowly down the
opposite slope. He was anxious that the Indians
should not discover him until he should be well
beyond the gullies in the road. These he passed
safely, and, as he rose to the level ground beyond,
he noticed that one of the mustangs in the bowl-
ders was holding his head high, watching his
movements. It occurred to the sergeant that
to kill a pony would be equal to killing an In-
dian. He took a cartridge in his palm, so that
Vol. XVII.— 5.

of running away from the mustangs with all the
elasticity and grace that had distinguished him
on the racecourse, and had always led to vic-
tory. He settled down to a long and steady
pace which promised soon to leave his pursuers
far behind. The soldier was beginning to con-
gratulate himself upon his wisdom in insisting
upon having Two-Bits for his service. With every
spring the old horse seemed to be fast widen-
ing the distance between the Indians and their
intended victim; and this continued for about
half a dozen miles, when Porter reluctantly ob-
served that no further change in his favor was
evident. In fact, it soon became evident that

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

the Navajos were slowly and surely closing up
on him.

This was not at all strange. Two- Bits was an
American horse, accustomed in garrison and
camp to his twelve pounds of grain daily ; a
kind of horse that will invariably run down in
flesh on a grazing diet. The mustangs lived en-
tirely upon grass and grew fat and kept in good
condition even when subjected to the roughest
usage. Two-Bits was heavily loaded and had
tasted no grain for four days ; the mustangs were
lightly mounted and filled with their accustomed
forage. Two-Bits was old and the mustangs were
young. The odds were decidedly against the
veteran war-horse ; but he kept on with his long
powerful gallop, while the Indian ponies came
on with a short, quick, tireless clatter which
never changed its cadence and threatened to
overtake the sergeant before he could gain the
shelter of the hills, still many miles away.

The flight and pursuit over the plain had to
be confined closely to the road. Outside of the
track the vegetation would seriously wound and
disable an animal attempting to go through its
spiked obstructions.

At last an arrow flew between Porter's shoul-
der and ear. Turning in his saddle, he fired,
breaking the leading Navajo's arm and causing
him to fall into the road, while his riderless pony
stopped by the wayside and began at once to
graze. As the sergeant dropped his carbine by
his right side to place a new cartridge in the
breech, an arrow struck his right hand, his fingers
relaxed, and the precious weapon dropped into
the road. He could not stop to recover it, — it
would be useless with a badly wounded hand, —
so he plunged wearily on, looking at the broken
fingers and flowing blood, with his first serious
misgivings. His chances of getting out of this
scrape alive seemed desperate indeed. With his
skill as a marksman, he had all along thought
that he should soon pick off all his enemies ; but
with no carbine and a useless right hand the
chances were much against him.

Resolving, like a brave man, to die game,
Porter hastily bound his handkerchief about his
wounded hand, and drew a revolver in his left.
Turning, he fired shot after shot, but without
effect except to keep the two Indians hanging
over the sides of their horses, until, conceiving

a contempt for his inaccurate aim, they sat up-
right, and sent arrow after arrow toward him.
The distance was still too great for these primi-
tive missiles to be fully effective, but two pierced
his shoulders, and the shafts of three could be
seen switching up and down in the quarters of
Two-Bits as he galloped wearily on. A lucky
shot caused one of the Indians to rein up sud-
denly, dismount, and sit down by the roadside.
The last Navajo kept on, however, with all the
eagerness with which he began the chase ap-
parently unabated, and soon he wounded Por-
ter again, and this time along the ribs. In very
desperation, the sergeant then suddenly turned
his horse to the right-about, bore down quickly
upon the Indian pony, and before his rider had
time to recover from his surprise at the unex-
pected attack he sent his last remaining shot
crashing into the brain of the mustang. The
little horse swerved out of the track and fell
headlong into a cactus, and before the Indian
could extricate himself Two-Bits and his rider
had wheeled and were out of arrow-range.

The pursuit was at an end, and it would no
doubt be pleasant to the reader of this story of
a horse if I could say that the sergeant and
Two-Bits were now safe. But they were very
far from safe. When well beyond any chance
of pursuit from the last and ponyless Navajo,
Porter slid painfully from his saddle to examine
into his own and his horse's injuries. No arrows
were left in his own body, but he was badly
lacerated and had bled profusely, until he was
scarcely able to stand. The horse had received
seven wounds, and three arrows were still stick-
ing in his flesh. These were not deeply in, and
were easily removed ; but a long cut along the
ribs, from hind to fore quarters, had torn the
skin badly and still bled profusely. Porter
bound up his own wounds with fair success,
but he could do nothing for the horse. Neither
could he relieve Two-Bits by walking. The
horse refused a ration of hard bread offered
him, and there remained nothing to be done
but for the sergeant to drag himself painfully
into the saddle and resume his journey. Re-
mounting was not accomplished without great
difficulty, and only by the aid of a date-tree
which forked, conveniently, two feet from the
ground. Speed was now out of the question,

A STORY OF A HORSE.

and the horse simply limped along at a feeble horse in a desert country without water might

walk. The excitement of the chase was over,
and the nerves of both man and beast had lost
their tension.

When the pursuit ended, Porter found him-
self near the border of the plain from which the

unfit him for further effort, and without a horse
there was no hope for the man to pass over the
long remaining distance to Wingate. It was this
very hopelessness which caused the soldier to
press on into the increasing darkness, putting

■' M

BrmmitvK-

' TWO-BITS LAST DASH.

road led up into a rugged and hilly country,
and it was already growing toward twilight.
The miles stretched wearily out, and there
seemed no better prospect than to dismount
and try to find rest, even though rest for the

off a halt which lie felt must be final. Still
creeping slowly along, he at last surmounted
a height overlooking a narrow valley, and on
the other side saw a bright fire burning, which
occasionally disappeared and reappeared as if

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

persons were passing before it. The hopes ot
the soldier were at once revived at the prospect
of reaching friends and assistance, but the hopes
were as quickly depressed by the fear that the
fire might be that of an enemy, — probably a
party of Navajos, for this was their country.
But even a foe might prove to be a friend to
one in his plight, so he pressed on.

Two-Bits was so weak that he hardly more
than moved, and hours elapsed before the valley
was crossed and he brought his rider near the
fire. He was ascending the hillside on which the
fire was burning when the rattle of halter-chains
over feed-boxes — a sound familiar to a soldier's
ears — came plainly through the evening air,
and Porter knew that he was near a Govern-
ment train. With the welcome sound he grew
faint and fell from the saddle to the ground
senseless. Two-Bits kept on into camp, ap-
proached the camp-fire, looked into the faces of
the guard which sat about its cheerful blaze,
turned, as if to retrace his steps, staggered, fell,
and died.

The unexpected appearance of a horse, sad-
dled and bridled, a mail-bag strapped on his
back, his saddle covered with blood, his body
wounded in half a dozen places, his sudden fall
and death, started the whole camp into activity.
The military escort was soon under arms, horses
and mules were quickly saddled, and lanterns
were soon hurrying down the road. The search-
ers had not far to go before they came upon the
sergeant, lying apparently lifeless. He was taken
into camp, tenderly cared for, and next day taken
to Fort Wingate, the place for which the train
was bound.

Was Two-Bits left to be food for the coyotes ?
No. Sergeant Porter told his story, and the
command being of the company stationed at
Fort Craig at the time of the first race men-
tioned in these columns, it was not difficult to
find a few sympathetic old soldiers who yielded
to the earnest request of the wounded express-
rider and buried his equine friend and comrade
deeply, and heaped a mound of stones over his
grave.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

By Walter Camp.

The rules governing American foot-ball are
an outgrowth or development of the English
Rugby foot-ball game, the very name of which
at once recalls to every reader the well-beloved
"Tom Brown."

The credit of introducing these rules among
our colleges belongs entirely to Harvard, who
had learned them from the Canadians and were
at the outset won by the superior opportunities
Offered by the new game for strategy and gen-
eralship as well as for clever individual playing.
After Harvard had played for a year or two with
our northern neighbors, Yale was persuaded to
adopt these English rules, and in 1876 the first
match between two American college teams un-

der the Rugby Union rules was played. Since
that time the code has undergone many changes,
the greater number being made necessary by the
absolute lack of any existing foot-ball lore or
tradition on American soil. The English game
was one of traditions. " What has been done
can be done ; what has not been done must be
illegal," answered any question which was not
fully foreseen in their laws of the game.

For the first few years, our college players
spent their time at conventions in adding rules
to settle vexed problems continually arising, to
which the English rules offered no solution. In
this way the rules rapidly multiplied until the
number was quite double that of the original

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

code. Then followed the process of excision,
and many of the old English rules which had
become useless were dropped. During the last
few years the foot-ball law-makers have changed
but two or three rules a year. The method of
making alterations has also been perfected.

In order to avoid the petty dissensions inci-
dent to contests so recent that the wounds of
defeat were yet tender, an Advisory Committee
of graduates has been appointed and all altera-
tion of rules is in their hands. They meet once
a year to propose any changes that appear to
them necessary. They submit such propositions
to the Intercollegiate Association for discussion
and approval. Provided this Association ap-
prove of them, they are then, by the Secretary
of the Advisory Committee, incorporated in the
rules for the following season. In case the Asso-
ciation take exception to any, they are returned
to the Advisory Board, and if they then receive
the votes of four out of the five members, they
become laws in spite of the disapproval of the
Association. This has never yet occurred, nor
has there been anything to mar the harmony
existing between the two bodies.

No change, then, is possible unless suggested
by a body of men, not immediate participants
in the sport, who have had the benefits of past
experience. This most excellent state of affairs
was the result of suggestions emanating from
an informal conference held some years ago in
New York, at which were present members of
the Faculties of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale.
These gentlemen were at that time carefully
watching the growth of the sport, and were pre-
pared to kill or encourage it according to
its deserts. Their suggestions have rendered
most substantial aid to the game, and made
its law-making the most conservative and thor-
oughly well considered of all rules governing
college contests.

" How does the English game differ from the
American ? " is a very common question, and in
answering it one should first state that there are
two games in England, — one " the Rugby "
and the other " the Association." These dif-
fer radically, the Association being more like
the old-fashioned sport that existed in this
country previous to the introduction of the
Rugby. In the Association game the players

can not run with the ball in their hands or
arms, but move it rapidly along the ground
with their feet — "dribble the ball," as their
expression has it. Of course, then, a com-
parison between our game and the Associ-
ation is out of the question. To the Rugby
Union, however, our game still bears a striking
resemblance, the vital point of difference being
the outlet to the " scrimmage " or " down." In
the English game, when the ball is held and put
down for what they call a " scn/mmage," both
sides gather about in a mass, and each endeav-
ors by kicking the ball to drive it in the direc-
tion of the opponents' goal. Naturally, there is
a deal of pushing and hacking and some clever
work with the feet, but the exact exit of the ball
from the " scrummage " can not be predicted or
anticipated. When it does roll out, the man
who is nearest endeavors to get it and make a
run or a kick. The American scrimmage, while
coming directly from the English play, bears
now no similarity to it. Instead of an indis-
criminate kicking struggle we have the snap-
back and quarter-back play. The snap-back
rolls the ball back with his foot; the quarter
seizes it and passes it to any man for whom the
ball is destined in the plan of the play. In other
respects, with the exception of greater liberties
in assisting a runner, it would not be a very
difficult task to harmonize our game with the
British.

While the game has in the last ten years grown
rapidly in popular favor, it would not be fair to
suppose that all of the ten or fifteen thousand
spectators who gather to witness one of the great
matches have clearly defined ideas of the rules
which govern the contest. Many of the tech-
nical terms they hear used are also Greek to
them, and it would undoubtedly add to their
enjoyment of the game to give a few clues to
chief plays of interest.

While awaiting the advent of the players,
one looks clown on the field and sees a rect-
angular space a little over a hundred yards
long and a trifle more than fifty yards wide,
striped transversely with white lines, which give
it the aspect of a huge gridiron. These lines
are five yards apart, and their only purpose is to
assist the referee in judging distances. There is
a rule which says that in three attempts a side

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

must advance the ball five, or take it back twenty
yards under penalty of surrendering it to the
opponents. The field is therefore marked out
with these five-yard lines, by means of which
the referee can readily tell the distance made at
each attempt. The gallows-like arrangements at
the ends of the field are the goal posts, and in
order to score a goal the ball must be kicked
over a cross-bar extending between the posts by
any kind of a kick except a " punt." That is,
it must be by a "drop kick," which is made by
letting the ball fall from the hand and kicking
it as it rises from the ground ; by a " place
kick," which is from a position of rest on the
ground ; or finally even from a rolling kick. A
"punt" is a kick made by dropping the ball
from the hand and kicking it before it strikes
the ground, and such a kick can under no cir-
cumstances score a goal. Scoring is only pos-
sible at the ends of the field, and all the work
one sees performed in the middle of the ground
is only the struggle to get the ball to the goal.

There are two ways in which points may be
made : By kicking the ball, as above described,
over the goal, and by touching it down behind
the goal line. A "safety " is made when a side
are so sorely pressed that they carry the ball
behind their own goal line, and not when it is
kicked there by the enemy. In the latter case,
it is called a " touchback," and does not score

" down." Such a play entitles his side to a " try-
at-goal," and if they succeed in kicking the ball
over the bar, then the goal only scores and not
the touchdown ; but if they miss the try, they
are still entitled to the credit of the touchdown.
A goal can also be made without the interven-
tion of a touchdown; that is, it may be kicked
direct from the field, either from a drop kick or
a place kick, or even when it is rolling or bound-
ing along the ground. This latter, however, is
very unusual. In the scoring, the value of a field
kick goal is only five, of a goal kicked from
a touchdown, six; if the touchdown does not
result in a goal it counts four, and a safety by
the opponents counts the other side two.

When the game begins, the ball is placed in
the center of the field and put in play, or kicked
off, as it is termed, by the side which has lost
the choice of goal. From that time forward,
during forty-five minutes of actual play, the two
sides struggle to make goals and touchdowns
against each other. Of the rules governing their
attempts to carry the ball to the enemies' quarters,
the most important are those of off side and on
side. In a general way it may be said that " off
side " means between the ball and the oppo-
nents' goal, while "on side " means between the
ball and one's own goal. A player is barred
from taking part in the play or handling the
ball, when in the former predicament. When a

QUARTER-BACK TAKING THE BALL.

either for or against the side making it. A ball has been kicked by a player, all those of

"touchdown " is made when a player carries the his side who are ahead of him, that is, between

ball across his opponents' goal line and there has him and his opponents' goal, are off side, and

it down, i. e., either cries " down " or puts it on even though the ball go over their heads they

the ground ; or if he secures the ball after it has are still off side until the ball has been touched

crossed his opponents' goal line and then has it by an opponent, or until the man who kicked it

p.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

has run up ahead of them. Either of these two
events puts them on side again. Any player who
is on side may run with or kick the ball, and his
opponents may tackle him whenever he has the
ball in his arms. It is fair for them to tackle
him in any way except below the knees. They
must not, however, throttle or choke him, nor
can players use the closed fist. The runner may
push his opponents off with his open hand or
arm, in any way he pleases, and ability to do this
well goes far toward making a successful runner.

When a player having the ball is tackled and
fairly held so that his advance is checked, and
he can not pass the ball, the player tackling
him cries out " Held ! " The runner must say
" Down," and the ball is then put on the ground
for a scrimmage. Any player of the side which
had possession of the ball can then put it in play.
Usually the " snap-back," as he is called, does
this work. He places the ball on the ground,
and then with his foot (or hand) rolls the ball
back, or kicks it forward or to one side, generally
for a player of his own side to seize. When the
ball is rolled or snapped back, the man who first
receives it is called the quarter-back, and he
can not run forward with it. When, however,
it is kicked sideways or ahead, any one except
the snap-back and the opposing player opposite
him can run with it.

"Free kicks" are those where the opponents
are restrained by rule from interfering with the ball
or player until the kick is made. At the com-
mencement of the game, the side which has lost
the choice of goals has a free kick from the cen-
ter of the field; and when a goal has been scored
the side which has lost it has a free kick from the
same location. Any player who fairly catches
the ball on the fly from an opponent's kick, has a
free kick, provided he makes a mark with his heel
on the spot of the catch. A side which has made
a touchdown has a free kick at the goal, and a
side which has made a safety or a touchback
has a free kick from any spot behind the twenty-
five-yard line. This line is the fifth white line
from their goal, and upon that mark the oppo-
nents may line up.

A violation of any rule is called a foul, and
the other side has the privilege of putting the
ball down where the foul was made. Certain
fouls are punished by additional penalties. A

player is immediately disqualified for striking
with the closed fist or unnecessary roughness. A
side loses twenty-five yards, or the opponents
may have a free kick, as a penalty for throttling,
tripping up, or tackling below the knees. For
off-side play a side loses five yards. A player
may pass or throw the ball in any direction ex-
cept toward his opponents' goal. When the ball
goes out of bounds at the side, it is "put in" at
the spot where it crossed the line by a player of
the side first securing the ball. He bounds or
throws the ball in ; or he may, if he prefers, walk
out with it any distance not greater than fifteen
paces, and put it down for a scrimmage.

A FAIR TACKLE.

Of the two individuals one sees on the field in
citizen's dress, one is the umpire and the other the
referee. These two gentlemen are selected to see
that the rules are observed and to settle any ques-
tions arising during the progress of the game.
It is the duty of the umpire to decide all points
directly connected with the players' conduct,
while the referee decides questions of the posi-
tion or progress of the ball. The original rules
provided that the captains of the two sides
should settle all disputes; but this, at the very
outset, was so manifestly out of the question that
a provision was made for a referee. Then, as
the captains had their hands full in commanding
their teams, two judges were appointed, and it
was the duty of these judges to make all claims
for their respective sides. These judges soon be-
came so importunate with their innumerable
claims as to harass the referee beyond all en-
durance. The next step, therefore, was to do
away with the judges and leave the referee sole

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

master of the field. Even then the referee found
so much that it was impossible for him to watch,
that it was decided to appoint a second man,
called an umpire, to assist him. This umpire
assumed the responsibility of seeing that the
players committed no fouls, thus leaving the
referee's undivided attention to be devoted to
following the course of the ball.

This has proved so wonderfully successful
that the base-ball legislators are seriously con-
sidering the question of adopting a similar system
of dividing the work between two umpires.

gradual development from the English Rugby,
are peculiarly interesting, showing as they do
the inventive faculty of our college players.
The way in which the quarter-back play was
suggested and perfected illustrates this very
strongly. Our players began exactly as the Eng-
lishmen, by putting the ball on the ground, clos-
ing around it, and then kicking until it rolled
out somewhere. In the first season of this style
of scrimmage play, they made the discovery that
far from being an advantage to kick the ball
through, it often resulted in a great disadvan-

A TUl/CHDOWN'.

There are two general divisions of players,
the " rushers " or " forwards," so called because
they constitute the front rank of the foot-ball
army ; and the backs, called the quarter-back,
the half-backs or halves, and the full-back or
goal-tend. The quarter has been already de-
scribed. The halves, of whom there are two,
play several yards behind the rushers, and do
the kicking or artillery work. The goal-tend is
really only a third half-back, his work being
almost the same as that of the halves.

The changes the game has undergone in its

tage, for it gave the opponents a chance to se-
cure the ball and make a run. The players,
therefore, would station a man a short distance
behind the scrimmage, and the rushers in front
would manage to so cleverly assist the kicking
of the opponents as to let the ball come through
directly to this player, who had then an excellent
opportunity to run around the mass of men be-
fore they realized that the ball had escaped.

Soon an adventurous spirit discovered that he
could so place his foot upon the ball that by
pressing suddenly downwards and backwards

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

with his toe he would drag or snap the ball to
the man behind him. At first, naturally, the
snap-back was not sufficiently proficient to be
always sure in his aim, but it did not take long
to make the play a very accurate one, and in the
games to-day it is unusual for the snap-back to
fail in properly sending the ball to his quarter.

Originally the quarter was wont to run with or
kick the ball, but now as a rule he passes it to
one of the halves or to a rusher who has come
behind him, instead of making the run himself.
The quarter then directs the course of the play,
so that scientific planning is possible ; whereas
in the old method the element of chance was
far greater than that of skill.

One frequently hears old players speak of
the " block game " and its attendant evils. This
was a system of play by which an inferior team
was enabled to escape defeat by keeping con-
tinual possession of the ball, while actually
making but a pretense of play. So great did
the evil become, that in 1882 a rule was made,
which has already been mentioned, to the effect
that a side must make an advance of five
yards or retreat ten* in three scrimmages. The
penalty for not doing this is the loss of the ball
to the opponents. A kick is considered equiva-
lent to an advance, even though the same side
should, by some error of the opponents, regain
the ball when it comes down. The natural
working of this rule, as spectators of the game
will readily see, is to cause a side to make one
or two attempts to advance by the running style
of play, and then, if they have not made the
necessary five yards, to pass the ball back to a
half for a kick. The wisdom of this play is evi-
dent. If they find they must lose the ball, they
wish it to fall to their opponents as far down the
field as possible, and so they send it by a long
kick as near the enemies' goal as they can.

One other rule, besides this one, has had a de-
velopment worthy of particular attention. It is
the one regarding the value of the points scored.
At first, goals only were scored. Then touch-
downs were brought in, and a match was decided
by a majority of these, while a goal received a
certain equivalent value in touchdowns. Then
the scoring of safeties was introduced ; but only
in this way, that in case no other point was
scored a side making four less safeties than their

opponents should win the match. A goal kicked
from a touchdown had always been considered
of greater value than a field-kick goal, but it
was not until the scoring had reached the point
of counting safeties, that it was decided to give
numerical values to the various points in order
that matches might be more surely and satisfac-
torily decided. From this eventually came the
method of scoring as mentioned earlier in this
article.

A few diagrams illustrative of the general
position of the players when executing various
maneuvers will assist the reader in obtaining an
insight into the plays. As there are no hard
and fast rules for these positions they are de-
pendent upon the judgment of each individual
captain; nevertheless the following diagrams
indicate in a general way the formations most
common.

The first diagram shows the measurements
of the field as well as the general position of two
teams just previous to the kick-off, or opening
of the game. While the front rank are all called
forwards or rushers, distinctive names are given
to the individual positions. These also are noted
on this first diagram.

The forwards of the side which has the kick,
"line up" even with the ball, while their oppo-
nents take up their positions ten yards away.
They are not permitted to approach nearer
until the ball is touched with the foot. For-
merly, when it was the practice at kick-off to
send the ball as far down the field as possible,
the opponents were wont to drop two forwards,
near the ends of the line, back a few feet ; thus
providing for a short kick. The quarter took his
place in a straight line back from the ball some
sixty or seventy feet, while the two halves and
the back stood sufficiently distant to be sure of
catching a long kick. The positions of the side
kicking the ball were not so scattered. All their
forwards and the quarter stood even with the
ball, ready to dash down the field ; while the
halves and back stood only a short distance be-
hind them, because as soon as the ball was sent
down the field they would be in proper places
to receive a return kick from the opponents.

The kick-off of the present day is more apt to
be a " dribble," or a touching the ball with the
foot and then passing or running with it. The

Vol. XVII.— 6.

* This was altered recently to twenty yards.

4 2

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

(Nov.

result of this is that the opponents mass more
compactly, the halves and quarter not playing
far down the field and the rushers at the ends
not dropping back. The side having the kick,

the man who is to play the ball. Diagram 2
illustrates the position at the moment of the kick-
off. The kicker touches the ball with his foot,
picks it up and hands it to the runner who is

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keeping in mind, of course, the particular play
they intend to make, assume positions that shall
the most readily deceive their opponents, if
possible, and yet most favor the success of their
maneuver.

For instance, an opening play quite common
last year was the "wedge" or "V." In dia-
grams 2 and 3 are shown the positions in this
play. As the players "line out" they assume as
nearly as possible the regular formation, in order

OOOOo

DIAGRAM 2.

that their opponents may not at once become
too certain of their intention. As soon, how-
ever, as play has been called, one sees the rushers
closing up to the center and the player who is
to make the running, dropping in close behind

coming just behind him. The forwards at once
dash forward, making a V-shaped mass of men
just within the angle of which trots along the
runner. Diagram 3 shows them at this point.

But this wedge no sooner meets the opposing
line, than the formation becomes more or less
unsteady, exactly in proportion to the strength
and skill of the opponents. Against untrained
players the wedge moves without great difficulty,
often making twenty or thirty yards before it
is broken. Skillful opponents will tear it apart
much more speedily.

Now comes the most scientific part of the
play ; namely, the outlet for the runner and
ball. There are two ways of successfully mak-
ing this outlet. One is to have a running half-
back moving along outside the wedge, taking
care to be a little behind the runner so that
the ball may be passed to him without com-
mitting the foul of passing it ahead. When
the wedge begins to go to pieces, the ball is
dexterously thrown out to him and he has an
excellent opportunity for a run, because the
opposing rushers are so involved in breaking the

i88q.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

wedge that they can not get after him quickly.
Diagram 4 illustrates this. The second, and by
far the most successful when well played, is for
two of the forwards in the wedge to suddenly-
separate and in their separation to push their
opponents aside with their bodies, so that a

DIAGRAM 4. DIAGRAM 5.

pathway is opened for the runner, so he can
dart out with the ball. Diagram 5 shows this.

The wedge formation is a good play from
any free kick, because the opponents are so re-
strained by being obliged to keep behind a certain
spot, that time is given for the wedge to form and
acquire some headway before they can meet it.

The formation of the side which has the ball
in a scrimmage, next occupies our attention.
As stated before in this article, it is customary
for them to make two attempts to advance the

Diagram 8 shows still another phase of the
running-game, where a rusher runs around be-
hind the quarter, taking the ball from him on
the run and making for an opening on the other
side, or even on the very end.

Diagram 9 shows the formation when, having

DIAGRAM 8. . DIAGRAM 9.

ball by a run before resorting to a kick. There
is some slight difference in the ways they form
for these two styles of play. Diagram 6 shows
the formation just previous to the run. The
forwards are lined out, blocking their respective
opponents, while the halves and backs generally
bunch somewhat in order to deceive the oppo-
nents as to which man is to receive the ball, as
well as to assist him, when he starts, by blocking
off the first tacklers.

Diagram 7 shows the line of a half-back's run
through the rushers. A and B endeavor, as he
comes, to separate (by the use of their bodies, for
they can not use their hands or arms to assist
their runner) the two rushers in front of them,
that the runner may get through between them.

made two attempts and not having advanced
the ball five nor lost twenty yards, the side pre-
fers to take a kick rather than risk a third fail-
ure, which would give the ball to the opponents
on the spot of the next "clown." The forma-
tion is very like that for the run, except that
the distance between the forward line and the
halves is somewhat increased and the three men
are strung out rather more.

Let us now consider the formation of the op-
posing side during these plays. There is but

00000000

DIAGRAM IO.

OOOOOOOO

DIAGRAM II.

one formation for the opponents in facing the
running-game, and that is according to diagram
10. Of course they alter this whenever they
have the good fortune to discover where the
run is to be made, but this is seldom so evident
as to make much of an alteration in formation
safe. Their forwards line up, and their quarter
goes into the rush-line wherever he finds the
best opening. Their halves stand fairly close
up behind and their back only a little distance
further toward the goal. The formation, after the
two attempts to run have failed, is, however, quite
different in respect to the half-backs and backs.
They at once run rapidly back until they are all
three at a considerable distance from the for-
wards. The back stands as far as he thinks

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

it possible for the opposing half to kick, under
the most favorable circumstances, while the two
halves stand perhaps forty or fifty feet in advance,
ready to take the ball from a shorter kick. Dia-
gram 1 1 illustrates this.

In a "fair" or putting the ball in from the

ooo°oooo

DIAGRAM 12.

DIAGRAM 13.

touch (see diagram 12), the same general forma-
tion prevails as in the ordinary scrimmage, for it
is really nothing more than a scrimmage on the
side of thefield instead of in the middle. It counts
the same as an ordinary " down " in respect to the
necessity of advancing five yards ; that is, if a side
has made one attempt, from a down, to advance
and has carried the ball out of bounds, and
then makes another unsuccessful attempt to
advance but is obliged to have the ball down

again, without accomplishing the five-yard gain,
it must on the next attempt make the distance
or surrender the ball.

After a touchdown has been made, if a try-
at-goal is attempted by a place-kick, the forma-
tion is somewhat similar to a kick-off. (See
diagram 13.) The man who is to place the
ball lies flat on his stomach with the ball in his
hands, taking care that until the kicker is ready
it does not touch the ground, as that permits
the opponents to charge. The forwards line
up even with the ball, ready to run down
when it is kicked, in order that they may have
a chance of getting it, in case he misses the goal.
The other half and the back stand a few feet
behind the kicker. The position of the opponents
in this play is necessarily limited, for they are
obliged to stand behind their goal until the ball
is kicked. The same diagram (13) shows the
position they assume. Their rushers undertake
to run forward and stop the ball, while their
halves and back are ready, in case it misses, to
make a touchback.

These diagrams cover the most important
plays of the game and give one an insight into the
general manipulation of players during match.

ANN LIZY'S PATCHWORK.

By Mary E. Wilkins.

Ann Lizy was invited to spend the afternoon
and take tea with her friend Jane Baxter, and
she was ready to set forth about one o'clock.
That was the fashionable hour for children and
their elders to start when they were invited out
to spend the afternoon.

Ann Lizy had on her best muslin delaine
dress, her best embroidered pantalets, her black
silk apron, and her flat straw hat with long blue
ribbon streamers. She stood in the south room
— the sitting-room — before her grandmother,
who was putting some squares of patchwork,
with needle, thread, and scissors, into a green
silk bag embroidered with roses in bead-work.

"There, Ann Lizy," said her grandmother,
"you may take my bag if you are real careful
of it, and won't lose it. When you get to Jane's
you lay it on the table, and don't have it round
when you 're playin' outdoors."

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy. She was look-
ing with radiant, admiring eyes at the bag — its
cluster of cunningly wrought pink roses upon
the glossy green field of silk. Still there was a
serious droop to her mouth ; she knew there
was a bitter to this sweet.

" Now," said her grandmother, " I 've put
four squares of patchwork in the bag; they 're
all cut and basted nice, and you must sew 'em

p.]

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

all, over and over, before you play any. Sew 'em
real fine and even, or you '11 have to pick the
stitches out when you get home."

Ann Lizy's radiant eyes faded; she hung her
head. She calculated swiftly that she could not
finish the patchwork before four o'clock, and
that would leave her only an hour and a half to
eat supper and play with Jane, for she would
have to come home at half-past five. " Can't
I take two, and do the other two to-morrow,
Grandma ? " said she.

Her grandmother straightened herself disap-
provingly. She was a tall, wiry old woman with
strong handsome features showing through her
wrinkles. She had been so energetic all her life,
and done so much work, that her estimation of
it was worn, like scales. Four squares of patch-
work sewed with very fine even stitches had, to
her, no weight at all ; it did not seem like work.

" Well, if a great girl like you can't sew four
squares of patchwork in an arternoon, I would n't
tell of it, Ann Lizy," said she. " I don't know
what you 'd say if you had to work the way I
did at your age. If you can't have time enough
to play and do a little thing like that, you 'd
better stay at home. I ain't goin' to have you
idle a whole arternoon, if I know it. Time 's
worth too much to be wasted that way."

" I 'd sew the others to-morrow," pleaded
Ann Lizy faintly.

"Oh, you would n't do it half so easy to-
morrow; you 've got to pick the currants for the
jell' to-morrow. Besides, that does n't make any
difference. To-day's work is to-day's work,
and it has n't anything to do with to-morrow's.
It 's no excuse for idlin' one day, because you do
work the next. You take that patchwork, and
sit right down and sew it as soon as you get
there — don't put it off — and sew it nice too, or
you can stay at home — just which you like."

Ann Lizy sighed, but reached out her hand
for the bag. " Now be careful and not lose it,"
said her grandmother, " and be a good girl."

" Yes, ma'am."

•' Don't run too hard, nor go to climbin'
walls, and get your best dress torn."

" No, ma'am."

" And only one piece of cake at tea-time."

" Yes, ma'am."

"And start for home at half-past five."

" Yes, ma'am."

Little Ann Lizy Jennings, as she went down
the walk between the rows of pinks, had a be-
wildered feeling that she had been to Jane
Baxter's to tea, and was home again.

Her parents were dead, and she lived with
her Grandmother Jennings, who made her child-
hood comfortable and happy, except that at
times she seemed taken off her childish feet by
the energy and strong mind of the old woman,
and so swung a little way through the world in
her wake. But Ann Lizy received no harm
by it.

Ann Lizy went down the road with the bead
bag on her arm. She toed out primly, for she
had on her best shoes. A little girl, whom she
knew, stood at a gate in every-day clothes, and
Ann Lizy bowed to her in the way she had seen
the parson's wife bow, when out making calls in
her best black silk and worked lace veil. The
parson's wife was young and pretty, and Ann
Lizy admired her. It was quite a long walk to
Jane Baxter's, but it was a beautiful afternoon,
and the road was pleasant, although there were
not many houses. There were green fields and
flowering bushes at the sides, and, some of the
way, elm-trees arching over it. Ann Lizy would
have been very happy had it not been for the
patchwork. She had already pieced one patch-
work quilt, and her grandmother displayed it to
people with pride, saying, "Ann Lizy pieced that
before she was eight years old."

Ann Lizy had not as much ambition as her
grandmother, now she was engaged upon her
second quilt, and it looked to her like a checked
and besprigged calico mountain. She kept
dwelling upon those four squares, over and over,
until she felt as if each side were as long as the
Green Mountains. She calculated again and'
again how little time she would have to play
with Jane — only about an hour, for she must
allow a half-hour for tea. She was not a swift
sewer when she sewed fine and even stitches,
and she knew she could not finish those squares
before four o'clock. One hour! — and she and
Jane wanted to play dolls, and make wreaths
out of oak-leaves, and go down in the lane after
thimble-berries, and in the garden for goose-
berries — there would be no time for anything!

Ann Lizy's delicate little face under the straw

4 6

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

[Nov.

flat grew more and more sulky and distressed,
her forehead wrinkled, and her mouth pouted.
She forgot to swing her muslin delaine skirts
gracefully, and flounced along hitting the dusty
meadow-sweet bushes.

Ann Lizy was about half-way to Jane Baxter's
house, in a lonely part of the road, when she
opened her bead bag and drew out her pocket-
handkerchief — her grandmother had tucked that
in with the patchwork — and wiped her eyes.
When she replaced the handkerchief, she put it
under the patchwork, and did not draw up the
bag again, but went on, swinging it violently by
one string.

When Ann Lizy reached Tane Baxter's gate,
she gave a quick, scared glance at the bag. It
looked very flat and limp. She did not open
it, and she said nothing about it to Jane. They
went out to play in the garden. There were so
many hollyhocks there that it seemed like a real
flower-grove, and the gooseberries were ripe.

Shortly after Ann Lizy entered Jane Baxter's
house, a white horse and a chaise passed down
the road in the direction from which she had
just come. There were three persons in the
chaise — a gentleman, lady, and little girl. The
lady wore a green silk pelerine, and a green
bonnet with pink strings, and the gentleman a
blue coat and bell hat. The little girl had pretty
long, light curls, and wore a white dress and
blue sash. She sat on a little footstool down in
front of the seat. They were the parson's wife's
sister, her husband, and her little girl, and had
been to visit at the parsonage. The gentleman
drove the white horse down the road, and the
little girl looked sharply and happily at every-
thing by the way. All at once she gave a little
cry — "Oh, Father, what 's that in the road ?"

She saw Ann Lizy's patchwork, all four squares
nicely pinned together, lying beside the meadow-
sweet bushes. Her father stopped the horse, got
out, and picked up the patchwork.

" Why," said the parson's wife's sister, "some
little girl has lost her patchwork ; look, Sally ! "

" She '11 be sorry, won't she ? " said the little
girl whose name was Sail)'.

The gentleman got back into the chaise, and
the three rode off with the patchwork. There
seemed to be nothing else to do ; there were no
houses near and no people of whom to inquire.

Besides, four squares of calico patchwork were
not especially valuable.

" If we don't find out who lost it, I '11 put it
into my quilt," said Sally. She studied the pat-
terns of the calico very happily, as they rode
along; she thought them prettier than anything
she had. One had pink roses on a green ground,
and she thought that especially charming.

Meantime, while Sally and her father and
mother rode away in the chaise with the patch-
work, to Whitefield, ten miles distant, where their
house was, Ann Lizy and Jane played as fast
as they could. It was four o'clock before they
went into the house. Ann Lizy opened her bag,
which she had laid on the parlor-table with the
"Young Lady's Annuals "and " Mrs. Hemans'
Poems." " I s'pose I must sew my patchwork,"
said she, in a miserable guilty little voice. . Then
she exclaimed. It was strange that, well as she
knew there was no patchwork there, the actual
discovery of nothing at all gave her a shock.

" What 's the matter ? " asked Jane.

" I 've — lost my patchwork," said Ann Lizy.

Jane called her mother, and they condoled
with Ann Lizy. Ann Lizy sat in one of Mrs.
Baxter's rush-bottomed chairs and began to cry.

" Where did you lose it ? " Mrs. Baxter asked.
" Don't cry, Ann Lizy, maybe we can find it."

" I s'pose I — lost it comin'," sobbed Ann Lizy.

"Well, I '11 tell you what 't is," said Mrs.
Baxter; " you and Jane had better run up the
road a piece, and likely as not you '11 find it;
and I '11 have tea all ready when you come home.
Don't feel so bad, child, you '11 find it, right
where you dropped it."

But Ann Lizy^nd Jane, searching carefully
along the road, did not find the patchwork where
it had been dropped. " Maybe it 's blown
away," suggested Jane, although there was
hardly wind enough that afternoon to stir a
feather. And the two little girls climbed over
the stone walls, and searched in the fields, but
they did not find the patchwork. Then another
mishap befell Ann Lizy. She tore a three-cor-
nered place in her best muslin delaine, getting
over the wall. When she saw that she felt as
if she were in a dreadful dream. " Oh, what will
Grandma say ! " she wailed.

" Maybe she won't scold," said Jane, consol-
ingly.

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

" Yes, she will. Oh dear ! "

The two little girls went dolefully home to tea.
There were hot biscuits, and honey, and tarts,
and short gingerbread, and custards, but Ann
Lizy did not feel hungry. Mrs. Baxter tried to
comfort her ; she really saw not much to mourn
over, except the rent in the best dress, as four
squares of patchwork could easily be replaced ;
she did not see the true inwardness of the case.

At half-past five, Ann Lizy, miserable and
tear-stained, the three-cornered rent in her best
dress pinned up, started for home, and then —
her grandmother's beautiful bead bag was not to
be found. Ann Lizy and Jane both remembered
that it had been carried when they set out to
find the patchwork. Ann Lizy had meditated
bringing the patchwork home in it.

" Aunt Cynthy made that bag for Grandma,"
said Ann Lizy in a tone of dull despair ; this was
beyond tears.

" Well, Jane shall go with you, and help find
it," said Mrs. Baxter, " and I '11 leave the tea-
dishes and go too. Don't feel so bad, Ann
Lizy, I know I can find it."

But Mrs. Baxter, and Jane, and Ann Lizy,
all searching, could not find the bead bag. " My
best handkerchief was in it," said Ann Lizy.
It seemed to her as if all her best things were
gone. She and Mrs. Baxter and Jane made a
doleful little group in the road. The frogs were
peeping, and the cows were coming home.
Mrs. Baxter asked the boy who drove the cows
if he had seen a green bead bag, or four squares
of patchwork ; he stared and shook his head.

Ann Lizy looked like a wilted meadow reed,
the blue streamers on her hat drooped dejectedly,
her best shoes were all dusty, and the three-
cornered rent was the feature of her best muslin
delaine dress that one saw first. Then her little
delicate face was all tear-stains and downward
curves. She stood there in the road as if she
had not courage to stir.

" Now, Ann Lizy," said Mrs. Baxter, " you 'd
better run right home and not worry. I don't
believe your Grandma '11 scold you, when you
tell her just how 't was."

Ann Lizy shook her head. " Yes, she will."

" Well, she '11 be worrying about you if you
ain't home before long, and I guess you 'd better
go," said Mrs. Baxter.

Ann Lizy said not another word ; she began
to move dejectedly toward home. Jane and
her mother called many kindly words after her,
but she did not heed them. She kept straight
on, walking slowly until she was home. Her
grandmother stood in the doorway watching for
her. She had a blue-yarn stocking in her hands,
and she was knitting fast as she watched.

"Ann Lizy, where have you been, late as
this ? " she called out as Ann Lizy came up the
walk. " It 's arter six o'clock."

Ann Lizy continued to drag herself slowly
forward, but she made no reply.

" Why don't you speak ? "

Ann Lizy crooked her arm around her face
and began to cry. Her grandmother reached
down, took her by the shoulder, and led her
into the house. " What on airth is the matter,
child ? " said she ; " have you fell down ? "

" No, ma'am."

"What does ail you then? — Ann Lizy Jen-
nings, how come that great three-cornered tear
in your best dress ? "

Ann Lizy sobbed.

" Answer me."

" I — tore it gittin' over — the wall."

" What were you gettin' over walls for in your
best dress ? I 'd like to know what you s'pose
you '11 have to wear to meetin' now. Did n't I
tell you not to get over walls in your best dress ?
— Ann Lizy Jennings, wliere is my bead bag ? "

" I — lost it."

" Lost my bead bag ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

" How did you lose it, eh ? "

"I lost it when — I was lookin' for — my
patchwork."

" Did you lose your patchwork ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

"When?"

"When I was — goin' over to — Jane's."

" Lost it out of the bag ? "

Ann Lizy nodded, sobbing.

" Then you went to look for it and lost the bag.
Lost your best pocket-handkerchief too ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

Old Mrs. Jennings stood looking at Ann Lizy.

"All that patchwork, cut out and basted jest
as nice as could be, your best pocket-handker-
chief, and my bead bag lost, and your meetin'

ANN LIZYS PATCHWORK.

[Nov.

dress tore," said she ; " well, you 've done about
enough for one day. Take off your things and
go upstairs to bed. You can't go over to Jane
Baxter's again for one spell, and every mite of
the patchwork that goes into the quilt you 've
got to cut by a thread, and baste yourself, and
to-morrow you 've got to hunt for that patch-
work and that bag till you find 'em, if it takes
you all day. Go right along."

Ann Lizy took off her hat, and climbed meekly
upstairs, and went to bed. She did not say her
prayers ; she lay there and wept. It was about
half-past eight, the air coming through the open
window was loud with frogs, and katydids, and
whippoorwills, and the twilight was very deep,
when Ann Lizy arose and crept downstairs.
She could barely see her way.

There was a candle lighted in the south room,
and her grandmother sat there knitting. Ann
Lizy, a piteous little figure in her white night-
gown, stood in the door.

" Well, what is it ? " her grandmother said, in
a severe voice that had a kindly inflection in it.

" Grandma — "

" What is it ? "

" I lost my patchwork on purpose. I did n't
want — to sew it."

" Lost your patchwork on purpose ! "

"Yes — ma'am," sobbed Ann Lizy.

" Let it drop out of the bag on purpose ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

" Well, you did a dreadful wicked thing then.
Go right back to bed."

Ann Lizy went back to bed and to sleep. Re-
morse no longer gnawed keenly enough at her
clear childish conscience to keep her awake,
now her sin was confessed. She said her pray-
ers and went to sleep. Although the next
morning the reckoning came, the very worst
punishment was over for her. Her grand-
mother held the judicious use of the rod to be
a part of her duty toward her beloved little or-
phan granddaughter, so she switched Ann Lizy
with a little rod of birch and sent her forth full
of salutary tinglings to search for the bead bag
and the patchwork. AH the next week Ann
Lizy searched the fields and road for the miss-
ing articles, when she was not cutting calico
patchwork by a thread and sewing over and
over. It seemed to her that life was made up

of those two occupations, but at the end of a
week the search, so far as the bead bag was
concerned, came to an end.

On Saturday afternoon the parson's wife
called on old Mrs. Jennings. The sweet, gen-
tle young lady in her black silk dress, her pink
cheeks, and smooth waves of golden hair
gleaming through her worked lace veil entered
the north room, which was the parlor, and sat
down in the rocking-chair. Ann Lizy and her
grandmother sat opposite, and they both noticed
at the same moment that the parson's wife held
in her hand — the bead bag !

Ann Lizy gave a little involuntary "oh"; her
grandmother shook her head fiercely at her,
and the parson's wife noticed nothing. She
went on talking about the pinks out in the yard,
in her lovely low voice.

As soon as she could, old Mrs. Jennings
excused herself and beckoned Ann Lizy to fol-
low her out of the room. Then, while she was
arranging a square of pound-cake and a little
glass of elderberry wine on a tray, she charged
Ann Lizy to say nothing about the bead bag to
the parson's wife. " Mind you act as if you
did n't see it," said she ; " don't sit there lookin'
at it that way."

" But it 's your bead bag, Grandma," said
Ann Lizy in a bewildered way.

" Don't you say anything," admonished her
grandmother. " Now carry this tray in, and be
careful you don't spill the elderberry wine."

Poor Ann Lizy tried her best not to look at
the bead bag, while the parson's wife ate pound-
cake, sipped the elderberry wine, and conversed
in her sweet, gracious way; but it did seem
finally to her as if it were the bead bag instead
of the parson's wife that was making the call.
She kept wondering if the parson's wife would
not say, " Mrs. Jennings, is this your bead
bag ? " but she did not. She made the call and
took leave, and the bead bag was never men-
tioned. It was odd, too, that it was not; for
the parson's wife, who had found the bead bag,
had taken it with her on her round of calls that
afternoon, partly to show it and find out, if she
could, who had lost it. But here, it was driven
out of her mind by the pound-cake and elder-
berry wine, or else she did not think it likely
that an old lady like Mrs. Jennings could have

t38g.]

ANN LIZY'S PATCHWORK

owned the bag. Younger ladies than she
usually carried them. However it was, she
went away with the bag.

"Why did n't she ask if it was yours?" in-
quired Ann Lizy, indignant in spite of her ad-
miration for the parson's wife.

" Hush," said her grandmother. " You mind
you don't say a word out about this, Ann Lizy.
I ain't never carried it, and she didn't suspect."

Now, the bead bag was found after this un-
satisfactory fashion ; but Ann Lizy never went
down the road without looking for the patch-
work. She never dreamed how little Sally Put-
nam, the minister's wife's niece, was in the
mean time sewing these four squares over and
over, getting them ready to go into her quilt.
It was a month later before she found it out,
and it was strange that she discovered it at all.

It so happened that, one afternoon in the
last of August, old Mrs. Jennings dressed her-
self in her best black bombazine, her best bonnet
and mantilla and mitts, and also dressed Ann
Lizy in her best muslin delaine, exquisitely
mended, and set out to make a call on the par-
son's wife. When they arrived they found a
chaise and white horse out in the parsonage yard,
and the parson's wife's sister and family there
on a visit. An old lady, Mrs. White, a friend
of Mrs. Jennings's, was also making a call.

Little Ann Lizy and Sally Putnam were in-
troduced to each other, and Ann Lizy looked
admiringly at Sally's long curls and low-necked
dress, which had gold catches in the sleeves.
They sat and smiled shyly at each other.

"Show Ann Lizy your patchwork, Sally,"
the parson's wife said presently. " Sally has
got almost enough patchwork for a quilt, and
she has brought it over to show me," she added.

Ann Lizy colored to her little slender neck ;
patchwork was nowadays a sore subject with
her, but she looked on as Sally, proud and
smiling, displayed her patchwork.

Suddenly she gave a little cry. There was
one of her squares ! The calico with roses on
a green ground was in Sally's patchwork.

Her grandmother shook her head energetic-
ally at her, but old Mrs. White had on her
spectacles, and she, too, had spied the square.

"Why, Miss Jennings," she cried, "that 's
jest like that dress you had so long ago ! "
Vol XVII.— 7.

" Let me see," said Sally's mother quickly.
" Why, yes ; that is the very square you found,
Sally. That is one; there were four of them,
all cut and basted. Why, this little girl did n't
lose them, did she ? "

Then it all came out. The parson's wife was
quick-witted, and she thought of the bead bag.
Old Mrs. J ennings was polite, and said it did
not matter ; but when she and Ann Lizy went
home, they had the bead bag, with the patch-
work and the best pocket-handkerchief in it.

It had been urged that little Sally Putnam
should keep the patchwork, since she had
sewed it, but her mother was not willing.

" No," said she, " this poor little girl lost it,
and Sallymust n't keep it ; it would n't be right."

Suddenly Ann Lizy straightened herself. Her
cheeks were blazing red, but her black eyes
were brave.

" I lost that patchwork on purpose," said
she. " I did n't want to sew it. Then I lost
the bag while I was lookin' for it."

There was silence for a minute.

" You are a good girl to tell of it," said Sally's
mother, finally.

Ann Lizy's grandmother shook her head
meaningly at Mrs. Putnam.

" I don't know about that," said she. " Own-
in'-up takes away some of the sin, but it don't
all.

But when she and Ann Lizy were on their
homeward road, she kept glancing down at her
granddaughter's small face. It struck her that
it was not so plump and rosy as it had been.

" I think you 've had quite a lesson by this
time about that patchwork," she remarked.

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy.

They walked a little farther. The golden-
rod and the asters were in blossom now, and
the road was bordered with waving fringes of
blue and gold. They came in sight of Jane
Baxter's house.

"You may stop in Jane Baxter's, if you want
to," said old Mrs. Jennings, "and ask her
mother if she can come over and spend the
day with you to-morrow. And tell her I say
she 'd better not bring her sewing, and she 'd
better not wear her best dress, for you and
she ain't goin' to sew any, and mebbe you '11
like to go berryin', and play outdoors."

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THE PRINCE AND THE BREWER'S SON.*

By Elizaeeth Balch.

BEAUTIFUL old place called
Hinchingbrooke, situated near
the ancient town of Hunting-
don, was in a flutter of ex-
citement one bright sunny
morning two hundred and
eighty-six years ago, in the year 1603.

" His Majesty can ride and hunt, and amuse
himself with the noble game of chess, or with
the sprightly conversation of the fair dames who
will be only too proud to entertain him ; but
how we are to amuse a baby prince, is more
than I can imagine."

To every one he met the good knight would

King James I. of England, with a large retinue repeat this dismal exclamation; but at last a
of the nobles of his court, was to visit the more happy thought came to his mind, and summ on-
distant possessions of his kingdom : and in order ing a lad, he hastily penned a few lines, and
to break the journey from London to the north, bade the page cany them to his son, Robert the
a very long and trying one in those days, he had brewer, in the town of Huntingdon,
announced his royal will and pleasure that a " Be off with you," the knight cried cheerily
halt should be made over night at Hinching- to the page, " and let not the weeds grow be-
brooke, a favorite resting-place for the sovereigns tween the stones of the old wall before you are
of that time when making a "royal progress," back again with grandson Oliver." Oliver was
as their journeys were generally called. a little boy not much older than the prince him-

With the King was to come the little Prince self.

Charles, a delicate boy four years old, and this As the page quickly sped away upon his er-

fact had given old Sir Henry Cromwell, the rand, a well-satisfied expression came over the

"Golden Knight," who was the owner of Hinch- countenance of the doughty knight, and he

ingbrooke, more anxiety than anything else con- rubbed his hands contentedly together while

nected with the royal visit. he mused to himself aloud.

* The illustrations of Hinchingbrooke House, and of the old Gateway, are drawn, by permission, from photographs

by A. Maddison, Esq., Huntingdon, England.

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWER S SON.

" Not so badly devised, by my troth. The
lads may take kindly to one another, and if
Oliver makes a friend of the little Charles — who
knows? — a king's son is not half a bad friend
for a young fellow to have."

Flags were flying from the towers and battle-
ments of Hinchingbrooke, while the royal stand-
ard of England floated proudly above the gray
old buildings which formerly had been a nunnery;
and in the spot where holy women once had
prayed, soldiers in gay uniforms now laughed
and joked, while richly dressed courtiers and
numberless attendants crowded the court-yards
and corridors, and horses in rich trappings filled
the stables. Every part of the establishment

the grand old trees, where perhaps the warmth
of the golden sunshine might bring a more gen-
erous color into the pallid face.

In striking contrast to the delicate prince was
the lad Oliver. Strong and sturdy, with bright
red cheeks and a round fat face healthily browned
by fresh country air, he came gravely and slowly
through the old arched gateway, not in the least
intimidated by the glittering uniforms and gay
attire of all these grand people, and quietly ad-
vanced to the spot where the King stood, hold-
ing the hand of the little Charles.

Sir Henry, the " Golden Knight," with a deep
reverence to his sovereign, presented his grand-
son Oliver. The baby prince took off his velvet

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HE OFF WITH

THE K'NIGHT CRIED CHEERILY TO THE PAGE.

showed signs of unusual life and excitement, all hat with its long white plume, and bowed gra-

being anxious that the King should be pleased, ciously to the boy who looked so strong and

and that the pale little prince, who looked so healthy, yet who was so curiously grave. Oliver

fragile and delicate, should play happily under could not bow in a courtly way as Charles

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

[Nov.

did, but only went awkwardly forward, when his
grandfather, placing a hand upon his shoulder,
tried to make him bend his short, fat legs before
youthful royalty.

The King with one hand patted the closely

THE PET MONKEY AND THE BABY.

cropped head of the knight's grandson, while
the other rested on the golden curls of the baby
Charles, his heir, and with a cheery smile he
bade the boys go play together, and told them
to be friendly one with another.

Holding out his tiny hand to the silent, sturdy
Oliver, the little prince clasped the other's strong,
brown fingers in childish confidence, and the
two passed out under the gray stone gateway
with its carved figures of ancient Britons sup-
porting the arch. Out they went into the lovely
park beyond, where the sunshine danced merrily
in and out among the branches of the trees,

playing hide-and-seek with the quivering leaves,
and the grass was spread out like a soft green
carpet, upon which the children could play as
merrily as the birds above them sang.

The attendants talked among themselves, cast-
ing glances every now and then toward the
daintily clad little prince, whose curls were shin-
ing like gold in the sunshine, and whose pale
cheeks flushed with pleasure as the other boy
told of the rabbits which sometimes ran across
the park, and promised that, if the little visitor
would keep very still, some of these rabbits would
surely come, and then they could jump at them,
frighten them, and chase them across the grass.

Young princes are not taught to be patient,
and Charles soon tired of waiting quietly for the
rabbits. He proposed that Oliver should be
harnessed with some fine silk reins and driven
with a silver-mounted whip which was among
the toys the prince's attendants had brought
from London.

But Oliver was unwilling to be harnessed and
flatly refused to be whipped. Unused to opposi-
tion, the prince grew petulant and, at last, in a
teasing way, half struck young Oliver across the
shoulders with the lash of the new whip.

Oliver's brown face grew crimson, and doub-
ling his fist in a threatening manner, he turned
upon the royal child saying angrily:

" You shall never drive me, nor whip me with
your stupid little whip ! I will not allow it ! "
And then, before the prince could answer, the
angry boy struck him full in the face with his
clenched fist. A moment later the attendants,
startled by loud cries, came running up, and were
horrified to see the blood streaming from the
prince's nose over his pretty lace collar and
velvet frock.

Oliver was sent home to Huntingdon in dis-
grace, and all the pleasant visions of good Sir
Henry faded away, for surely now his grandson
could never make a friend of Charles Stuart.

And yet, man)- great things had been pre-
dicted for the boy. When he was an infant
asleep in his cradle, one summer day at Hinch-
ingbrooke, a pet monkey had crept into the
room, and, carefully lifting up the baby from his
bed, had carried him to the roof of the house.
All the household were terrified, and quickly
brought beds and mattresses, that the child might

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

fall unharmed should the monkey drop him. The
sagacious animal, however, brought the little
fellow safe back again. But had he dropped the
baby over the stone battlements upon the rough
ground below, the fate of King Charles might
have been a very different one.

The wise men of the day professed to believe
that this extraordinary adventure with the monkey
was a sign that the child would do great things ;
and when, some years later, Oliver insisted
that in a dream he had seen a tall man who
came to his bedside, and, opening the curtains

of his bed, told him he should one day be the
greatest person in the kingdom, these wise men
were more than ever convinced that a great
future was in store for the remarkable boy. His
father told him that it was wicked, as well as
foolish, to make such an assertion, for it was dis-
loyal to the King to even hint that a greater
than he could exist in the land ; but Oliver still
persisted in saying that the vision was true, add-
ing that the tall figure had not said that he
should be King, but only " the greatest person
in the kingdom." So vexed was his father with

m\ ?j _U~tJ J UBm:,

OLIVER AND THE PRINCE QUARREL.

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWER S SON.

him about this silly tale, that he told Dr. Beard,
the Master of the free grammar-school which
Oliver attended in Huntingdon, to punish him
well, and see whether flogging would not drive
these foolish ideas out of his head. Even after
floggings, however, the boy continued at times
to repeat the story to his uncle Steward, although
his uncle also told him that it was little less
than traitorous to relate the prophecy.

While Oliver was at this grammar-school, ac-
cording to ancient custom a play was acted by
the pupils. The one chosen was an old comedy
called " Lingua," and no part in it would satisfy
Oliver Cromwell save that of " Tactus," who
had to enact a scene in which a crown and
other regalia are discovered. This scene seemed
peculiarly to fascinate him.

During this period, when Oliver's mind was
thus dwelling upon mimic crowns, the boy whom
he had once struck that hasty blow under the
shady trees at Hinchingbrooke, had become heir
to a real crown, by the death of his elder brother
Prince Henry.

Having now grown from a sickly child to be
a high-spirited, handsome youth, with his friend
the Duke of Buckingham he had traveled to
Spain in search of adventure, and also in order
to see the young Spanish princess whom the
King, his father, wished him to marry. On their
way the two young men stopped in Paris. There,
at a masked ball, they saw the lovely Henrietta
Maria, sister of the French king ; and after this
there was no possibility that the Spanish Infanta
should become Queen of England, for Prince
Charles could not forget the fair face of the
French beauty; and in course of time Henrietta
Maria became his wife.

All this time the boy Oliver, also grown to
man's estate, lived on in the quiet town of Hunt-
ingdon, near the beautiful park where he had
played with the baby prince, and where he had
refused so stoutly to be the child's horse, and to
be driven with the silken reins and the whip with
the silver bells.

The good old grandfather, the " Golden
Knight " Sir Henry Cromwell, was dead and
buried, long since, and could no more rebuke
his grandson for his hasty, unyielding temper.
There had been another royal visit to Hinch-
inrrbrooke, with great feastings and ceremonials :

but it was Oliver Cromwell (not the boy Oliver,
but a son of the doughty knight, Sir Henry)
who now reigned over the lordly house and
lands, and this time the King had come without
the prince, and the two boys who once fought
under the shade of the branching oaks were pur-
suing each his own life, little dreaming how those
lives should influence one another.

It was while the King was at Hinchingbrooke,
upon his second visit, that Oliver Cromwell's
father, the brewer Robert, lay grievously sick,
" somewhat indifferent to royal progresses," and
in 1 617 he died, leaving his son — then about
eighteen — as head of the little household at
Huntingdon. Not long after, Oliver also, as
well as Prince Charles, brought home a smiling
young wife, and as the years passed on baby
children played under the trees where he and
the little prince had played — but let us hope
there were neither doubled fists nor bleeding
noses.

While Charles's life was a gay and stirring one,
Oliver's was grave and quiet, and Oliver himself
grew more and more solemn and silent, and
finally he and other serious-thinking men decided
that the King was a tyrant ; the country, he
thought, would be better without him, and he
joined these other discontented ones who thought
the same, and who determined to make war
against Charles, and the too merry, careless life
which they thought he was leading.

Sometime before, while yet a boy, Oliver had
fallen into the river Ouse, which runs sleepily
by the old town of Huntingdon; and the curate
of a church near by, in the village of Conning-
ton, who was walking on the river-bank at the
time, pulled him out of the water, and saved
his life. Afterward, when Cromwell marched
through this town at the head of his troops,
going to fight Charles Stuart, he saw and rec-
ognized the curate who had been his rescuer,
and asked, smilingly:

" Do you not remember me ? "

" Yes," answered the loyal curate ; " but I
wish I had put you in the river rather than have
seen you in arms against the King ! "

Cromwell thought it right to overturn the
throne, and he did so. Whether his acts were all
inspired by a desire to carry out the will of a
Supreme Being, as he asserted them to be, is to

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

this day a disputed point of history and will dream, and the vision of the tall man beside his

probably remain so until the end of time. bed who promised that he should become the

In 1627, beautiful Hinchingbrooke passed out " greatest man in the kingdom " ; and ambition

of the hands of the Cromwells, and became the may have tempted him along the bold path he

home of the noble family of Montague ; and, had chosen. Perhaps he thought that he was

some four years later, Oliver Cromwell left really doing right in thus trying to make away

Huntingdon and went to live at St. Ives, where with the authority of the King — who can tell?

CROMWELL AND THE CURATE.

can still be seen the bridge across the Ouse about
which was written the quaint old puzzle :

" As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives ;
Every wife had seven sacks;
Every sack had seven cats ;
Every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives ? "

During many weary years the struggle went
on between King Charles and his Parliament —
Oliver Cromwell joining with the latter, and be-
coming one of the principal opponents of his
sovereign. Perhaps he thought of his boyhood's

It is always difficult to understand men's motives.
Certain it is that the royal cause went from bad
to worse ; the army of Charles was defeated and
repulsed on every side, and the army of the
Parliament, to which Cromwell belonged, was
triumphant everywhere.

Poor King Charles ! He was no longer gay
and happy, but sad and very miserable. His
Queen secretly left England, and in a foreign
country sold the beautiful crown-jewels which
had been worn at so many splendid fetes and
entertainments, in order to obtain money for her
husband's soldiers. But it was all of no use ; the
Parliament, with Oliver Cromwell at the head

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

of its armies, finally conquered, and at last the
King himself fell into the hands of his enemies
and was held a prisoner. And now Cromwell
determined that Charles Stuart, with whom he
had once played as a little boy, should die.

Before his death Charles was allowed to see
his children, — the two at least who were in
England at the time, — the Princess Elizabeth
and the little Duke of Gloucester. After sending
a message by his daughter to his wife, Henrietta
Maria, whom he could never see again, the King
took his little son upon his knee and said gravely
to him : " My dear heart, they will soon cut off
thy father's head. Mark it, my child, they will
cut off thy father's head, and perhaps make
thee a king. Hut, mark what I say, thou must
not be a king so long as thy brothers Charles
and James live ; therefore, I charge thee, do not
be made a king by them." The brave child
replied, " 1 will be torn in pieces first ! " Then
the unhappy father gave the two his blessing and
said good-bye. Even the stern soldier Oliver was
touched by the grief of the wretched King and
of the poor little prince and princess, who knew
that they should never again sit upon their father's
knee, or hear his voice, or see his face. After this
came a dark and dreadful day when the King
was led out from the palace of Whitehall to die
upon a scaffold.

History has made the rest of the story familiar;
and very likely many of you have read the war-
rant ordering the execution of the King, and have
seen among the first of the signatures to it, the
name of the King's former playmate, the son of
the brewer of Huntingdon.

As Oliver Cromwell signed his name in firm,
clear characters to that cruel document, did he
recall the sunshiny day at lovely Hinching-
brooke, and the pale little prince who had held
out his baby hand in such friendly fashion, and
laughed so gleefully when the sturdy, brown-
faced boy, with whom his father had bid him
"be friends," told of the rabbits that sometimes
scampered over the grass under the spreading
trees ? Or did he remember the angry words
he had spoken when the little child in turn had
told of his silken reins, and his whip with silver
bells ? And the blow he had dealt which made
the blood flow and drew forth a cry of pain ?
Then the cry had been soon hushed, but on that
gloomy January day, in 1648, the King's head
lay severed from his body, and Charles Stuart
was silent for ever.

The brewer's son continued his career until his
dream came true ; for the day came when he could
write his name as " Lord Protector of the Com-
monwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland."

He was the " greatest person in the kingdom."

THE CRICKET.

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

Dainty Allis, here 's a cricket,
Trim and nimble, brave and bold,

Caught a-chirping in a thicket,
When the year was growing old.

He 's a patient little hummer,

Though he only knows one song ;

He 's been practicing all summer,
And he never sings it wrong.

He was piping under hedges
After all the birds had flown,

Trilling loud from stony ledges,
Making merry, all alone.

If the bearded grasses wavered
Underneath the lightest foot,

His sharp murmur sudden quavered
Into silence at the root.

Now the cricket comes to bring you
Cheery thoughts in time of frost ;

And a summer song he '11 sing you
When the summer sunshine 's lost.

You '11 be listening till you 're guessing
Pleasant meanings in the sound,

May the cricket's good-night blessing
Bring the happy dreams around !

Many and many a year hereafter
You will hear the same blithe tune,

For though you should outlive laughter,
Crickets still will chirp in June.

If some future summer passes
Homesick, in a foreign land,

There '11 be speech among the grasses,
That your heart will understand.

As you listen in the wild-wood

To that merry monotone,
It will bring you back your childhood

When you are a woman grown.

Vol. XVII.— 8.

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

By Sophie Swett.

HILE the other
boys in Bloom-
boro' were saving
up their pennies to
buy whistles and
pop-guns and cara-
mels, or base-ball
bats and bicycles,
according to their
various ages and
tastes or to the seasons, Tom Pickernell was
always saving up to buy tools. Sometimes they
were of one kind, sometimes of another. He
had bought even farming tools, although he
had the lowest possible opinion of farming.
His grandfather seemed to think that farming
was the chief end of man; he was determined
that Tom should be a fanner whether he liked
or not ; but he believed in good old-fashioned
ways, and refused to buy any "new-fangled"
machinery. Tom argued and argued, but his
grandfather would not listen. He was scornful of
all Tom's great undertakings in the mechanical
line, and even Grandma, who usually had some
sympathy with a boy, laughed until she cried at
his idea of inventing a machine which should
" instantly separate milk into its component
parts." No tedious waiting for cream to rise,
no slow and back-aching churning process.
(Tom had reason to feel deeply on this point.)
Almost in the twinkling of an eye the milk, as
it came from the cow, was to be changed into
butter and buttermilk. Cynthy, the hired girl,
said it was "flyin' in the face of Proverdunce
to talk like that," and was sure that a boy who
did n't believe in churnin' would " surely turn
out an infiddle."

Tom knew that the great creameries had im-
proved upon the old-fashioned churns, but their
improvements were only child's play compared
to what he meant to do. He kept on thinking
over his plans, and experimenting as far as he

could, in spite of every one's jeers, although he
became so exasperated sometimes, when people
would n't understand him, that he would lie
down on his face in the pine grove, and dig his
fingers into the soil, and kick. But that was
when he was younger. He was fourteen now,
and had discovered that it was better to fight
manfully against obstacles than to kick the
empty air. He had also begun to leam that he
did n't know so much as he thought he did;
and this was a very hopeful dgn for Tom, for it
is n't taught in the grammar-school books, and
seems to be a neglected branch even at the
universities.

He had begun to understand, also, why he
was " a trial," as Grandma and Cynthy said.
He could n't see but that a boy had a right to
take things to pieces, if he put them together
again ; but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, the)'
failed to go together as they were before. This
(as in the case of the alarm-clock, and Grandma's
long-cherished music-box) was annoying, Tom
candidly acknowledged. He felt so unhappy
about those failures, that he forbore to remind
them, when they scolded him, that he had
made Grandma's worn-out egg-beater better
than when it was new, and repaired Cynthy's
long-broken accordion, so that now she could
enjoy herself, playing and singing "Hark, from
the Tombs," on rainy Sunday evenings.

It was a discouraging world, in Tom's opinion,
but he was, nevertheless, still determined to in-
vent, some day, The Instantaneous Butter-maker.
Many, many times, in imagination, he had gone
over all the details of a wonderful success with
that invention, even to Grandpa's noble and
candid confession (generally accompanied by
tears) that he had misunderstood and wronged
Tom ; but the details were becoming modified as
he grew older ; he had begun to strongly doubt
whether any such thing could ever be expected
of Grandpa. There had been a schoolmaster at

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

Bloomboro' for one winter, who held the con-
soling belief that a boy might not be altogether
a dunce although he was so " mixed up " in
geography as to declare that Constantinople
was the capital of Indiana, and was unable to
regard English grammar as anything but a hope-
less conundrum. Out of school he taught Tom
geometry, and was astonished at his quickness.
He even confided to Grandpa that he should
not be surprised if Tom turned out a genius.

But this had anything but the desired effect
upon Grandpa ; for to his mind a genius was an
out-at-elbows fellow who played on the fiddle,
and eventually came to the poor-house. Grand-
ma's idea was even worse : she said that if
Tom's father had lived he would know how to
bring Tom up so that he would n't turn out a
genius, but she was afraid they should n't ; —
she thought it all came of his mother being
a Brown.

But Grandma was too kind and sympathetic to
be hard upon a boy, as Grandpa was. She laughed
at him, and sometimes sighed dreadfully, — that
was almost the hardest thing for Tom to bear, —
and occasionally confided privately to Grandpa
that she "was n't going to believe but that
Tom would turn out as well as any boy, he was
so kind-hearted and affectionate ; and as for
smartness, what other boy could make a fox-
trap out of his own head ? " Sly Grandma knew
that Grandpa valued that fox-trap because it was
useful on the farm, and so she kept it in remem-
brance. Tom had no sympathizers among the
boys. He liked Jo Whipple best of any, but
Jo was a famous scholar; he could recite whole
pages of history without missing a word; in dates
you could seldom catch him tripping; he could
see sense in grammar, and he was going to study
Greek with the minister. And Tom shrewdly
suspected that Jo secretly thought him a fool.
Jed Appleby was the only boy in Bloomboro'
who had any interest in Tom's favorite pursuits,
and Tom had painful doubts of his honesty and
thought Jed meant to steal his inventions. So it
happened that when Tom wished for that sym-
pathy which is a necessity to most of us he was
forced to seek it from Caddy Jane.

Caddy Jane was his cousin, and she was an
orphan, too, and was being brought up by
Grandpa and Grandma. It was Tom's opinion

that that process was less hard upon a girl
than upon a boy — -and perhaps he was right;
nevertheless, Caddy Jane had her private
griefs. Grandma dressed her as little girls were
dressed when she was young, and the other girls
jeered at her pantalettes. Then, too, Grandma
did n't approve of banged hair; she said Na-
ture had given Caddy Jane " a beautiful high
forehead," and she was n't going to have it
spoiled; so she parted Caddy's hair in the middle
and strained it back as tightly as possible into
the tightest of little braids at the back. Tom
wondered, sometimes, with a sense of the hol-
lowness of life, if it were not that straining back
of her hair which gave Caddy Jane's eyes the
round, wide-open look which he took for won-
der and admiration, when he showed her his
machinery or told her his plans. It was cer-
tainly quite doubtful whether Caddy Jane under-
stood, at all. Tom, in his heart, suspected her of
being a very stupid little thing, but she had this
agreeable way of looking with round-eyed, open-
mouthed wonder at one's productions, and
would listen silently and with apparent interest
to the longest outpouring of one's interests and
plans ; and if this is not sympathy it is certainly
not a bad substitute for it. And if Caddy Jane
was a little stupid, well, — it would be uncom-
fortable not to be able to feel superior to a girl,
Tom thought; and if she had been quick at her
lessons he knew he should not have liked her half
so much. Caddy Jane not only found geography
hard, but she was struggling with skepticisms as
well. She did not believe that the earth was
round, because, if it were, why did not the China-
men fall off? Once when Grandpa had taken
her with him to market, at Newtown, she had
slipped, all by herself, into a Chinaman's laun-
dry and asked him if he could walk head down-
ward, like a fly, and the Chinaman had positively
disclaimed any such ability. This (to Caddy
Jane's mind the only possible solution of the
mystery) having failed, she felt that there was
nothing for a rational mind to do but to resign
itself to a bold and dreadful doubt of the Geog-
raphy. This seemed so reckless, and her trouble
was so great, that she confided in Tom; although
she was, as her grandmother said, " a dreadful
close-mouthed little thing." The doubt grew
still more painful when she discovered, through

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

[Nov.

Tom's jests and evasions, that he knew no more
about it than she. He said he could n't stop to
explain it, and a girl need n't bother herself
about such things, but she might ask Jo Whip-
ple. Jo Whipple! — who made most unpleasant
faces at her through a hole in the fence, and
whooped dismally in the dusk while she ran
across the field to carry the Scammons' milk !
Caddy Jane felt that it would be quite impossi-
ble to ask him, and, moreover, she did n't believe
that he knew any more than Tom, and said so,
which was very gratifying to Tom. When one
is conscious of being generally regarded as a
dunce, it is agreeable to have even a silly little
thing like Caddy Jane believe in one. So Caddy
Jane was a real consolation to Tom, and there
was no drawback to the pleasure of their meet-
ings, except the fact that Caddy Jane's boots
were almost always squeaky (Grandma believed
in good, stout, economical ones), and Tom's en-
terprises were so strongly disapproved of that
he was obliged to carry them on in the privacy
of the old granary, which had been abandoned
to rats and mice and weather.

It made a great stir at the farm when, one day,
a letter came from Cousin David Creighton, ask-
ing if his wife and daughter might spend the sum-
mer there. He was going to Europe, and his
wife wanted to be where she could have perfect
rest from excitement and gayety, and he wanted
Dulcie (" that is the little girl, I suppose,"
Grandma said, adjusting her glasses for the
twentieth time in her excitement as she read the
letter, "though of all the names I ever heard
of — ! ") he wanted Dulcie to have cows' milk and
country fare generally, and to get acquainted
with Bloomboro', where he had been a boy.

Cousin David Creighton had been a very
poor boy in Bloomboro'. He had been father-
less and motherless and homeless, sheltered here
and there, where any one would have him, and
"bound out" to the miller; he had picked ber-
ries to pay for his winter shoes, and known the
physical and mental trials of outgrown jackets
and trousers. And then, suddenly, he had taken
his fortunes into his own hands, and slipped away
from Bloomboro' ; and scarcely any one cared to
inquire where he had gone, and for years no one
knew. The miller's wife had a theory that he
had died of overeating, for she never knew a

boy to have such an appetite. When his name
began to appear often in the New York papers
that found their way to Bloomboro', the old men
would look at one another and wonder if it
could be the one. The doubt was ended when
a commercial traveler, who knew all about David
Creighton, appeared at the Bloomboro' hotel.
It was their David, and, according to the com-
mercial traveler, he could buy a gold mine every
morning before breakfast, if he cared to, and
carried two or three of the great railroads in his
pocket. Grandpa said he 'most wished he had
given David a dollar when he went away. He
had thought of it, when he saw him tying up his
bundle, but he was only a kind of second cousin,
and he had been afraid, too, that he would n't
make a good use of it. And Grandma said
David's story was " like a made-up one in a pic-
ture-paper, and it seemed kiiid o' light-minded
to listen to it." But the Bloomboro' boys
listened, and the heart of many a one burned
within him.

David's wife was a fine city lady ; the com-
mercial traveler had heard wonderful reports of
her diamonds and her turnouts. Grandma was
afraid she would put on airs, and not be satisfied
with anything ; but Grandpa said he did n't " see
how they could refuse, bein' 't was relations " —
besides, crops had been poor for two years and
the bank-account was running low. Grandpa
thought much about that.

So the letter was sent, saying that David's wife
and daughter might come; and Caddy Jane
scarcely slept a wink three nights, for thinking
and wondering about Dulcie, who was just nine,
as she was ; but Tom did n't trouble himself
in the least about the expected guests, having
weightier matters on his mind.

He had been at work for months, in his spare
time, on a miniature threshing-machine of his
own invention. Grandpa was so discouragingly
old-fashioned as to believe in a boy and a flail
as a threshing-machine. In Tom's opinion the
horse-power threshing-machines, which some of
the Bloomboro' farmers boasted, were not much
better. His machinery was somewhat compli-
cated, and he had not yet quite decided whether
the motive power should be steam or electricity,
though he had leanings toward the latter. He
had kept many midnight vigils in the old gran-

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

ary, with no company except now and then a
bright-eyed, inquisitive mouse, and he thought
in about a week or two he should finish the
machine to his satisfaction. It was dishearten-
ing to find that Caddy Jane had transferred her
interest almost entirely to the expected guests.
And Jo Whipple was continually urging him to
go fishing. A boy who thought great thoughts
must think them alone, Tom reflected, bitterly.

Cousin David Creighton came to Bloomboro'
with his wife and daughter. They brought a
French maid, their pug-dog, and a great amount
of luggage ; but, nevertheless, Caddy Jane and
even Grandma herself were somewhat disap-
pointed at the appearance of the party, for they
did n't look in the least as if they came out of a
fairy-book, as Caddy Jane expected, or even a
picture-paper, they were so plainly dressed ; and
Grandma felt sure they had on their best clothes,
because no one in Bloomboro' would think of
wearing anything else on a journey. And
Grandma thought Dulcie such a queer, " out-
landish-looking " little girl, with her hair down
to her eyes, and her dresses down to her shoes
and far too short-waisted. Grandma hoped she
could have the Bloomboro' dressmaker " fix her
up a little " before the minister's wife called.

Although they were both nine, Dulcie and
Caddy Jane looked askance at each other. It
was only when, the day after the arrival, Dulcie
needed sympathy in a great trouble that the ice
was broken between them, and they immediately
became great friends. Dulcie's dearest doll,
Jacquetta, had been carelessly packed, and a
heavy box pressing upon her had maimed and
disfigured her for life.

Caddy Jane went flying through the wood-
shed that afternoon, with Jacquetta under her
arm, to meet Tom. " O Tom, you never saw
anything like her ! Such a beauty ! and she feels
orfley ! She cried and cried, and — you don't
think you could mend her, do you, Tom ? And
anyway I want you to hear her talk ; that was n't
broken, and it 's almost enough to frighten you,
and oh ! Tom, what is the matter ? "

Caddy Jane's tone suddenly changed, for she
discovered, as Tom came nearer, that his face
was pale and his eyes so dark that they looked
unlike Tom's soft, blue ones, and his teeth were
set tightly together ; altogether he looked almost

as if he were not Tom at all, as Caddy Jane
said to herself. She had never seen him look so
but once before, and that was when Samp' Peters
set his fierce dog upon Tom's white kitten, and
the kitten's back was broken.

" Do tell me what it is, Tom ? " said Caddy
Jane.

Tom set his teeth more tightly together, and
then, suddenly, it came over him that it would
be a relief to tell Caddy Jane. It always was, —
perhaps because she was such a foolish little
thing ; she never gave any advice. Tom did n't
like advice when he felt miserable.

" They were going over the farm, Grandpa
and Cousin David Creighton," began Tom, in a
strained, high-keyed voice, which he tried very
hard to keep calm and steady. " Cousin David
wanted to see the places that he remembered.
I did n't think they would go into the old gran-
ary, it 's such a tumble-down old place, but they
did, and Grandpa rummaged around. He saw
some of my tools — I 've got careless since no-
body ever goes there — and that made him sus-
pect. I was away down on the edge of the
swamp when I saw them in there ; you 'd bet-
ter believe I ran ! When I got to the door
Grandpa had my model in his hand. I screamed
out. I don't know what I said, but I tried to
tell him what it was. I thought if I could make
him understand that it would do more in five
minutes than two men in a week ! — but it was
of no use ; he had that smile on his face that
just maddens a fellow. He threw my model
down on the floor and set his foot on it."

" Oh, Tom ! " Caddy Jane stepped upon some
wood to make her tall enough, and put her arm
around Tom's neck. Tom shook her off, after a
moment; he thought the fellows would call him
" a softy " if they should see her. But Caddy
Jane knew that he was not displeased, for he
went on to say, not without a little choking in
his throat :

" And that is n't the worst, Caddy Jane."

" O Tom, what could be worse ? " cried Caddy
Jane.

" That man — Cousin David Creighton —
acted as if he meant to be kind ; he picked up
the pieces and looked them over ; he stayed after
Grandpa had gone out; and he asked me about
the machine. And he said I had made a mis-

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

[Nov.

take. I did n't believe him at first, but he showed
it to me. Caddy, it would n't have gone, any-
way ! "

"But you could have made it right, Tom!
You can make it over and make it go ! " cried
Caddy Jane, with intense conviction.

" He said I did n't know enough : that I was
too ambitious ; that I must learn things first.
And it 's true ! That 's the very worst of it ! I
don't believe I shall ever make anything that
will go. I ma)' as well dig potatoes all my life,
as Grandpa wishes me to."

" Oh, Tom, you will make things that will go !
I knew you will," cried Caddy Jane. "You
would n't think such wonderful things unless
you could do them. Things will go wrong just
at first. I thought I should never learn to heel
and toe off, and now you can't tell my stockings
from Grandma's. And you are so smart," she
added quickly, feeling it presumptuous to com-
pare herself, in any way, to Tom. "And oh,
Tom, there are so many troubles ! Dulcie has
cried and cried. Just look here ! Her beauti-
ful nose all flattened, her eye dropped out, her
cheek crushed in, and her dear arm broken off! "

Caddy Jane held up the melancholy wreck
of a golden-haired wax doll.

" Pooh ! girls' rubbish," growled Tom, think-
ing that Caddy Jane was going to be much less
satisfactory, now that this new girl had come.

" But listen, Tom ! "

" Pa-pa ! " " Mam-ma ! " said the golden-haired
doll, not in a faint voice, as one might expect
from her condition, but quite distinctly.

Tom fairly jumped; talking dolls were quite
unknown to Bloomboro'. Then he seized the
doll eagerly from Caddy Jane's hands, and
squeezed it again and again.

" I wonder how they do it ! I wonder what
the machinery is like ! " he exclaimed. " She 's
all smashed up, anyway. That girl would n't
mind if I should take her to pieces, would
she ? "

Tom had quite forgotten his troubles for the
moment ; his face was all aglow.

" O/i, Tom I " Caddy Jane's accent was full of
horror. " I don't know what she would say. She
says she thinks just as much as ever of her.
And she feels orfley because, she says, she has
neglected her lately for a colored doll that was

given her in Boston. She 's only made of kid,
and she 's got raveled yarn for wool, and bead
eyes, and she 's not so very much better-looking
than my old Dinah ; but she never saw a col-
ored doll before, and she thinks she is perfectly
fascinating ; that 's what she says, ' perfectly fas-
cinating ' ; and her name is Nancy Ray, and
she says if she could only talk, like Jacquetta — "

Tom was gazing at Jacquetta with speculative
and longing eyes.

" You might leave her here. I will mend her
arm some time," he said, with an assumption of
indifference.

" Oh, I could n't do that. You might take her
to pieces — of course you would n't mean to,
but you might without thinking — and perhaps
she would n't go together again ! " said Caddy
Jane, with a vivid recollection of some of Tom's
enterprises.

" You 'd better take her away just as quick
as you can. She might get a scratch — such a
handsome new doll ! " sneered Tom.

Caddy hesitated. She could never bear to
have Tom cross, and he was looking dejected
again.

" I might ask Dulcie if she would like to have
you mend her arm," she said.

" Well, go along, and don't keep talking about
it. It is n't worth while," said Tom, crossly.

Caddy Jane was back in a minute.

" She says she does n't care. They 're mak-
ing a new red dress for Nancy Ray, Dulcie
and the French woman are, and I think Dulcie
is almost forgetting about Jacquetta."

" Leave old Jacket here, then," said Tom,
quite restored to good-nature. " And, I say,
Caddy Jane, you might get up a little picnic for
that girl. It would be nice to go down to
Plunkett's pond and stay all day."

Caddy Jane caught readily at the idea. She
said she would go, this very minute, and see
what Grandma thought about it. She looked
back wistfully at Jacquetta. Although she was
nine, Caddy Jane still had the feelings of a
mother toward dolls, and she strongly suspected
that Jacquetta was about to be sacrificed to
Tom's spirit of investigation. And there was
the dreadful doubt whether she would go to-
gether again! But Caddy Jane struggled against
her feelings, for Tom's sake — poor Tom, whose

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

precious model had been crushed under Grand-
pa's heel !

Tom, the moment he was alone, thrust Jac-
quetta under his jacket, as far as she would go,
and set out for the old granary. A half-hour
before, he had said to himself that he could never
bear to enter that place again ; but now he pushed
aside the ruins of his model with only a dull
pang of remembrance, so absorbing was his
curiosity about this wonderful new machinery.

He mended the arm first. It seemed a great
waste of time ; but that girl might take it into her
head to want the doll suddenly, and she might
make a fuss and cry. She was evidently not a girl
like Caddy Jane, whom a fellow could put in her
proper place. It is to be feared that the mend-
ing of that arm did small credit to Tom's me-
chanical skill ; it certainly was a very hurried
performance. And when it was done he care-
fully locked the granary door, and proceeded to
discover what made Jacquetta say "Papa" and
" Mamma."

He worked for a long time, and sometimes his
forehead was puckered up into a very hard frown,
and several times he uttered a little exclamation
of satisfaction. Once he longed so much for
Caddy Jane that he was tempted to go in search
of her. He had made a discovery which he
wished so much to tell to some one.

He had taken the machinery all apart, and he
could put it together again ; he would have
liked to have Grandma and every one know
that ; but it did seem a great pity to fasten it up
again in that old ruin of a doll.

Suddenly so bright an idea struck Tom that
he threw his cap up among the cobwebby beams
of the granary. " I '11 go and stir Caddy Jane
up about that picnic. I '11 make her have it
to-morrow. I can't wait," he said to himself.
" Nobody could blame a fellow for trying such
a scientific experiment as that." He quite sur-
prised Grandma by his zeal in making prepara-
tions for the picnic, as he was not at all in the
habit of being attentive to guests, and had shown
a strong inclination to run away from " that
girl." When the morning of the picnic came,
Grandma thought he seemed more like himself,
for he steadfastly refused to go.

" That boy is up to something ; 't is n't any
use to tell me ! " Cynthy sagely remarked, as

Tom prowled restlessly about the house, evi-
dently in search of something.

At length, in a secluded corner of the piazza,
he seemed to find what he sought and ran off
with it to the old granary; and nothing more
was seen of him for that day.

The picnic party returned late, and although
it was plain to Caddy Jane's experienced eye
that Tom had something on his mind, he did not
confide in her. She observed that he continu-
ally cast anxious glances at a certain corner of
the piazza ; and when Grandma had sent him
out to find a stray chicken which was peeping
disconsolately in the tall grass, she went to see
what there could be in that corner. But she
found nothing except Nancy Ray, sitting in the
carriage which had been poor Jacquetta's, just
as her mistress had left her. She did not think
it possible that Tom could have any interest in
Nancy Ray ; it was not long ago that he had
terribly wounded her feelings by letting all the
sawdust run out of her first doll, in an investi-
gating spirit, and since then he had shown only
scorn of dolls. She would have liked to ask him
about Jacquetta, but he gave her no opportunity.

Early the next morning Dulcie went across
the field with Caddy Jane, on an errand to Mrs.
Scammon. As they passed the old granary,
Dulcie caught sight of a bit of striped ribbon
fluttering from the top of a tall thistle near the
door. " It is Jacquetta's belt ! " she exclaimed.
" I should know it anywhere. Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta ! I wonder if he has mended
her arm. This is the little house where you
said he works, is n't it ? Let us go in and see
if we can find her."

Caddy Jane objected, but Dulcie had already
pushed open the door. And it was quite use-
less, as Caddy Jane had found already, to object
to anything that Dulcie wished to do. She
opened drawers and peered into boxes and
barrels, while Caddy Jane, filled with anxious
forebodings, begged her to come away; and
at last, at the same time, they both caught sight
of some golden locks, a waxen cheek, a col-
lapsed, dismembered body ! These fragments
lay on a table, in a heap of rubbish partially
covered with shavings.

" Oh, oh, that cruel, wicked boy ! he has broken
her all to pieces ! And she was the very dearest

doll I ever had ! And you said he would mend
her ! Oh, how could I trust you ! Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta ! "

Dulcie's grief waxed louder upon reflection.
She heaped reproaches upon Caddy Jane. She
ran toward the house, in spite of all Caddy's
entreaties, crying with grief and rage. Caddy
saw, with a sinking heart, that Grandpa and
Dulcie's father were standing together upon the
piazza. Grandpa would be very angry. Tom's
passion for taking things to pieces was the one
thing with which he had no patience. And he
had especially enjoined upon both Tom and
Caddy to be very polite and attentive to the
guests. Oh, what would happen to Tom ?

There he was now, coming around the cor-
ner of the house, just in time to see the doll's
mangled remains in Dulcie's hands, and to hear
her woful complaint, poured out with tears and
sobs. Grandpa's face was like a thunder-cloud,
and when he asked Tom, in a dreadful voice,
what he had to say for himself, Tom would not
answer a word. He was in one of his sullen
moods, and, indeed, it was not of much use to
try to answer Grandpa when he was in that
state of mind. And Dulcie's father looked as if
he were very sorry — for his little girl, of course,
Caddy Jane thought.

" And I never knew a doll that could talk
before, and he 's broken it right out of her ! "
sobbed Dulcie.

And then a sudden inspiration seized Caddy
Jane ; she had them sometimes, though she was
such a foolish little thing.

She flew along the piazza and seized Nancy
Ray out of the carriage, pressed her to her
bosom, and uttered a cry of joy. She thrust
her into Dulcie's arms, while Dulcie ceased her
sobs in astonishment.

" Papa ! " " Mamma ! " said Nancy Ray.

" Oh, oh, she can talk ! " cried Dulcie, becom-
ing a rainbow. " What does it mean ? She was

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

the nicest doll I ever had, before," — (Oh, false
and fickle Dulcie !) " and now she 's perfect ! Oh,
did you do it ? " (to Tom, who tried to look in-
different.) " It 's too bad that I called you an
orfle boy when you are such a nice one, and
can do- such wonderful things. And Jacquetta
was only a broken old thing."

Tom was beginning to talk to Dulcie's father;
Grandpa had walked away, with something like
an amused look upon his face. Tom was ex-
cited and talked eagerly. It was a comfort to
explain that machinery to some one who seemed
to understand and be interested. And there
was one little point where he thought an im-
provement might be made — it might be less
complicated. He hesitated before saying this,
because he thought Cousin David might find
some mistake again, or perhaps laugh at him.
But he did n't ; he seemed to consider the
matter seriously, and asked a great many ques-
tions, and at last said that he should n't wonder
if Tom were right, and if Tom would work up
his idea so that it could be seen he might pos-
sibly secure a patent for it ! He thought those
talking dolls were not made in this country, but
he would see what could be done with it abroad ;
sometimes a little thing like that amounted to a
great deal. And, anyway, he had become so
convinced of Tom's mechanical ability, that he
was going to ask Grandpa's consent to Tom's
going to New York in the fall, where he would
give the boy a technical education.

Tom was so overcome that he only colored,
and gasped, and looked at Caddy Jane. And
Caddy Jane, being only a foolish little girl,
cried. But I think Cousin David felt that he
was receiving gratitude enough.

" I never expected anybody would believe
in me till I 'd made an Instantaneous Butter-
maker or an improved phonograph, or some-
thing great," said Tom ; " and to think it 's
come about through a silly old doll ! "

^h>

By Oliver Herford.

Persons of the Drama.

Mr. Thomas Cat. Master Tommy Cat.

Mrs. Thomas Cat. Miss Fluffy Cat.

Sir Rat.

Scene: The barn. A basket in one corner.

Master Tommy ( looking out of the basket).
How very big the world is, after all !
Compared to it our basket seems quite small.
We never dreamed, dear Fluffy, till our eyes
Were opened, that the world was such a size.
I 'd like at once to see it all. Let 's go
And take a stroll around it.

Fluffy. No! No! No!

Mamma expressly told us not to stray
Outside the basket while she was away.
Something might happen if we disobeyed.

Tommy.

Oh, you don't dare, of course, — you are afraid!

Fluffy.

Suppose — oh, dear !
Rat!
Vol. XVII.— 9.

■suppose we meet a

Tommy.
• Suppose we do, dear Fluffy, what of that ?

/ will protect you with my strong right paw.

The sight of me would fill a Rat with awe.

Fluffy. Would it ?

Tommy. Of course it would. I 'd rather
like to see
The Rat who 'd dare to trifle once with me.
I do not think he 'd live to try it twice !

Fluffy.

You are so brave ! It really would be nice
To see the world

Tommy. It will be grand. Here goes!
There, take my paw, and jump. So, mind
your toes !

( Fluffy jumps. )
Now we are off. Tread softly, Sister dear,
If we 're not careful all the world may hear.

Fluffy (starting).

Oh, dear, what was
that noise ? I wish we
'd stayed —

Tommy (trembling).

Be brave, dear Sister, — see, / 'm n'-n'-not

a'-afraid.
Whatever happens, do not make a row!

w|lP^

&&m0

SIR RAT A COMEDY.

[Nov.

* "-h

%~0

Sir Rat.

Tommy.
Fluffy.

(Enter Sir Rat.)
Aha ! what 's this ?
Help! Murder! Mi-ow-ow!

Tommy, be calm ! Dear Mr. Rat, good-day. glR Rat Be done with foIly) Kitten , Now at last

Your time has come. Reflect upon your past !

Fluffy.

It won't take long my past life to unfold!
In sooth, Sir Rat, I 'm only nine days old.

w> 0m.

Sir Rat (jumping up and down ).

Enough ! enough ! I did not come to play !
Fluffy.

Dear Mr. Rat, how beautifully you dance.
Sir Rat. You flatter me.

Fluffy (aside). It is my only chance.

(To Tommy.)
Run, Tommy ! run ! and bring dear Father-cat,
While I remain and flatter Mr. Rat.

(Exit Tommy in haste.)
(To Sir Rat.)
It 's very plain you learned that step in France.
I wish, dear Rat, you 'd teach me how to dance.
Sir Rat.

I do not often dancing lessons give ;

But since you have n't very long to live, SlR Rat - Peace, Kitten ! Hold thy peace! —

And you are so polite, tins once I '11 try. ^ tlme ls P ast (Springs upon her.)

Fluffy. Thanks! thanks, dear Rat,— one Fluffy. Miow ! Miow !

dance before I die. (Enter Mr. and Mrs. Cat and Tommy.)

<'L

ri-s-r

(Polka Music.
Sir Rat dances
and Fluffy ap-
plauds.)

Fluffy. Bravo !
Sir Rat, I
never saw
before
Such perfect
dancing!
Won't you
dance once
more ?

U >*

SIR RAT A COMEDY.

-A

it!-*.

S&.V/W
-^o </-&

<*>-4

*^^

^fij"-' - . ./f^'i;

Mr. Cat. Aha! Sir Rat, at last

I have thee ; and this barn will soon, I trow,
Be rid of such a Ruffian Rat as thou !

( They fight. Sir Rat falls.)

Mr. Cat (sheathing his claws).

'T is well I hastened ; had I not, I fear
We soon had seen the last of Fluffy dear !

Tommy.

Oh, dear, to think what might have been her
fate!

Fluffy (aside).

I learned that polka step, at any rate.

Mrs. Cat.

But luncheon 's waiting. Come into the house.
Your father

Wk -1

caught to-
day a fine
spring mouse.

And, children,
when 1 tell
you not to stray

From home, in future do not disobey !

Curtain.

•<^mzwj m im%m *

A RACE FOR LIFE.

By Emma W. Demeritt.

iOMETHING must have
happened. Father ought
to have reached home two
hours ago."

Tom Ely's face wore a
troubled look as he glanced
uneasily toward the door.
He was sitting by a blazing fire in the rough room
of a lumberman's log shanty upon the shore of
one of the large Adirondack lakes. Beside the
rough fireplace, at the head of a pile of skins
and coarse, woolen blankets, stood Tom's gun,
his Christmas present from his father. On the
other side, with the polished steels glistening
in the firelight, hung his skates, for this active
lad of fifteen was the champion skater of the
Saranac region. There was hardly anything
which Tom could not do on ice. He could go
forward or backward, wheeling and circling
with all the ease of a swallow in mid-air. So
swiftly could he skim along the ice that his
father used laughingly to boast that — "while
any other skater was going one rod, Tom could
easily skate around him twice."

The lumbering-camp had broken up that very
day. After weeks of hard work, the great trees
had been cut down and the logs dragged to the
water's edge, waiting for the yearly spring rise
in the rivers to float them to the mills. There
was nothing more to be done until the breaking
up of the ice. Most of the men had gone di-
rectly to their homes in the settlements. Ten or
twelve of them, however, had spoken of stay-
ing for a day or two at a shanty on the second
lake below, with the hope of securing some
deer, and Tom's father concluded to stay be-
hind at the main camp for a few days, thinking
that if he should set his traps he might succeed
in getting a few skins to make warm tippets and
muffs for Tom's mother and little sister.

Soon after dinner, leaving Tom to cook the
supper and gather some firewood, the father

shouldered his rifle and started out for a tramp.
By sunset, Tom had piled up the wood in one
corner of the cabin, and then he set to work to
prepare supper. He placed the big tin plates
and cups on the rough, pine table, and, taking
down a ham which was hanging from the ceiling,
cut off a few slices and put them in the frying-
pan, and very soon an appetizing hot meal was
smoking on the hearth ; but still his father did
not come.

Tom was a little homesick, sitting there all
alone. He thought of his snug home in the set-
tlement, and fancied just how his mother and
little sister looked as they stood in the door-
way watching him and his father setting out for
the lumbering-camp. Even now, his mother's
parting words rang in his ears — "Tom, my boy,
take good care of your Father." What if any-
thing had happened to his father !

Tom started to his feet and, running to the
door, opened it and stepped out in the bright
moonlight. It was a clear, cold night, and the full
moon was just rising above the dark line of forest.
He stood listening for a moment, and was turn-
ing to enter the cabin, when he heard a footstep.
He raised a whistle to his lips and sounded a
shrill, piercing note. It was the camp signal,
and after a brief pause came the answering
whistle. But it sounded strangely faint and
quavering. Tom wondered at this, and won-
dered still more as he heard a halting, uncer-
tain step on the frozen ground — a step utterly
unlike his father's long, steady stride.

The next moment a tall figure tottered down
the bank behind the shanty, and, by the light of
the moon, Tom saw his father's pale, haggard
face. " Don't be frightened," said the wounded
man in a hoarse whisper as the boy darted up
the bank and sav, .he scorched and blood-stained
jacket-sleeve and the strong arm hanging limp
and helpless. " My foot slipped — the rifle was
loaded — and went off — the ball shattered my

A RACE FOR LIFE.

6 9

arm and lodged in my side — I thought 1 never
should get home."

Tom managed to lead his father into the
cabin, where he sank down on the pile of skins
in a sort of stupor. After rubbing the cold hand,
and forcing a few spoonfuls of hot coffee be-
tween the white lips, Tom had the satisfaction
of seeing the sufferer open his eyes and look up
with an attempt at a smile.

" It's pretty hard for you, Tom," he groaned.
" I feel better now. The loss of blood made me
dizzy. What are you going to do ? "

" But if the men should n't be there ? "
" Then I '11 keep on to the settlement."
" No — no — no!" came in quick, short gasps;
"there 's another danger — 700/ves."

Tom looked up with a sudden thrill of fear.
" Have you seen them, Father ? "

" Yes, Tom, — only a little way from here, — in
some snow in a hollow there were tracks. Being
an old guide I could n't mistake 'em. The
winter has been long and sharp, and hunger has
made them bold. It is many years since they
have been seen around here."

"already the lean, shaggy brute was

niiiN a few yards

" Going for help," replied Tom promptly. He
rose, put on a thick, woolen jacket and took up
his fur cap.

The father shook his head. "No, no; — it
won't do, my son."

" But I must, Father ! Don't look so worried.
It 's only a step to the river ; then down the
stream, over the pond, and along the river again
— then whiz! across the big lake to the shanty
where the men are ! That 's all."

Tom's cheeks blanched. He knew well that
it was no play to face a hungry wolf, or per-
haps a pack of them, in that grim, lonely
wilderness. He hesitated, and then came the
remembrance of his mother's charge, "Tom.
take good care of your Father.'' His mind
was made up.

" I can't take my gun," he said aloud, " for it
would only be in the way, but the knife will
be just the thing." He twisted a thick scarf

7°

A RACE FOR LIFE.

[Nov.

around his waist, and fastened the long-bladed
hunting-knife securely in his belt.

" Tom, you must not go," moaned his father.
" I can't let you risk your life to save mine ! "

" I must go, Father, if there were forty wolves
in my way." The boy knelt down by his father's
side and stroked the cold hand. " It 's dreadful
to leave you," — here he nearly broke down, but
managed to choke back the rising sobs, — "still,
it 's the only way. You might die without help,
and what could J say to Mother ! Keep up
your courage, Father. I 've fixed the fire so that
it will last, and here \s the coffee right by your
elbow. I '11 be back soon." Here the boy
breathed the prayer, "God help me!"

In a moment more, Tom had fastened the door
with a stout staple and was kneeling by the lake,
buckling on his skates. As he glided from the
shores he cast a hurried glance around. Both
his eyes and ears were strained to the utmost.
How black the shadows were along the shores !
How sharp was the " click, click," of the skates,
as they carried him on with the stead)- motion
of a machine! The river was soon reached,
and the half-mile over its frozen surface was
easily made, as were the two miles across the
little pond. When he followed again the frozen
course of the river he skated backward, as his
face was benumbed from going against the wind.
He stopped several times for breathing-spells, so
that he felt quite rested as he swept out of the
river to the smooth, level floor of the great lake,
at the lower end of which was the hunters' cabin.
For two miles down the lake, Tom skated quite
slowly, as he was keeping his strength for the
final dash. With body erect, head thrown back,
and arms crossed on his chest, he glided in
long, easy curves now to the right, now to the
left. As he reached the shelter of a little island
he paused for a short rest. Then he buckled on
his skates more firmly, but just as he was taking
a long breath in order to start again, a prolonged
mournful howl broke the stillness of the night
air. It was the sound which he had been
dreading and expecting ! His first impulse was
to save himself by climbing one of the large trees
nearby. Then he thought of his mother's part-
ing charge. " That would be looking out for
myself, and she told me to take care of Father,"
he murmured. He hastily pulled off his jacket,

felt for his knife, and tightened the scarf around
his waist. " You '11 have exercise enough to
keep you warm, Tom Ely," he muttered between
his set teeth ; and then he shot forward like an
arrow from the bow. How the ice rang under
the quick, fierce strokes of the skates ! How
swiftly the shores glided by !

The boy paused a moment to look over his
shoulder. On the ice near the shore was a small,
black speck, growing rapidly larger. The wind
had swept the last light fall of snow from the
center of the lake into windrows on both
sides, and there it had frozen, making a rough
surface on which the wolf found a sure footing.
Tom increased his speed, but that long, tireless
gallop, never for an instant faltering nor loitering,
was gaining rapidly on him. Already the lean,
shaggy brute was within a few yards, and the
boy heard an angry snarl as the creature made
a fierce spring at him. Quick as thought, Tom
wheeled suddenly to the right, and the wolf
rolled over and over on the ice, while the skater
sped on, gaining several rods by this trick.

In a moment, however, the furious beast was
up again, and a second desperate race began,
and a second time Tom escaped the sharp, white
teeth. By this time the boy's heart was beating
like a trip-hammer. His breath came in quick,
short gasps, and he was conscious of a queer
feeling of weakness about the knees. His heart
sank within him as he looked back and saw his
enemy again on his track. " I can't keep it up
much longer," he thought. "A little twig or
roughness on the ice — and it is all over with me."
He raised his white, despairing face toward the
heavens with a swift, short prayer. Just then he
caught a glimpse of a low point of land at the
left. Tom's blood tingled at the sight ! Below
were the hunters' cabin and the stout lumber-
men ! " What if the men had gone on to the
settlement ! " — and the boyish voice broke into
a sob.

A few strokes of the skates brought him to the
point, with the wolf close at his heels. Tom
raised his whistle to his lips and blew a piercing
blast. In another moment he had dodged the
wolf again, and as he swept round the point
he saw the open door of the cabin and the
blazing fire within. He heard a dozen answer-
ing whistles, the hoarse baying of dogs, the sharp

'■]

A RACE FOR LIFE.

crack of a rifle. He mustered strength to tell
his story, and then a faintness came over him and
he tottered into the arms of a strong lumberman.

The next that he knew, he was lying on a
pile of skins by a bright fire, with several strong
men bending over him. One of the hunters
was saying, " I 'd give a good deal to own a boy
like that. Talk of heroes — why that fifteen-
year-old chap is the biggest hero of 'em all."

Tom looked up ; he said only, " Father ? "

" Four of the men have gone to the settlement
for a doctor, half a dozen more, with old Hodge
amongst 'em (and he 's as good as a doctor any
time), are on the way to your father, and as soon
as you are able, we '11 take you up with us."

" And the wolf?" Tom sank back shuddering.

" His hide is over yonder in the corner ; one
of the men says that he is going to dress the
skin for you. It will be the proudest trophy
of your life, I reckon."

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

By John Russell Coryell.

In one of the cages of the zoological gardens
at Central Park, there is a miscellaneous and
rather incongruous collection of birds, made up,
as it would seem, of the odds and ends of the
feathered portion of the menagerie ; for it in-
cludes such dissimilar birds as the wood-duck,
the egret, the sickle-bill, a chicken with no bill
at all, a crow without any tail, a dilapidated ad-
jutant-bird, a roseate spoonbill (which spends
the greater part of its time in standing on one
of its spindling legs), a curassow, and several
other equally ill-assorted fellows.

Except a sulky heron, which seemingly passes
its gloomy life in nourishing a passionate hatred
for the tailless crow, these chance companions
associate very amicably together, bearing each
other's whims and fancies with philosophy and
good temper. And it must need a large supply
of both those virtues to get along in so mixed
a company ; for each bird follows the bent of
his natural habits without regard to any other
consideration.

Some of the results of this condition of affairs
are more amusing to the spectator than to the
actors ; as, when the sickle-bill becomes pos-
sessed by the idea that something of great value
to him is hidden under the hen without a bill,

and that he must relieve his curiosity by remov-
ing the hen. Accordingly he thrusts his long
bill under that patient bird and lifts her uncere-
moniously out of the comfortable dust-hole she
has made for herself.

Many of the pranks played in that cage are,
however, so imbued with an air of conscious
humor and enjoyment that it is hard to believe
that they are not meditated jokes. The crow,
for example, is always a funny bird ; but this
particular crow has the manner of a bird that
knows itself to be funny and even seems to con-
sider the loss of its tail a very laughable thing.
Not that it has any appearance of laughing.
Far from it. Like a professional joker of the
first order, it is solemnity itself. So, too, is the
adjutant-bird, which combines with the crow to
make fun for the cage. And when this incon-
gruous pair are in a mischievous mood there is
certain to be fun.

One day, when the crow was hopping about
the cage in its misguided way, — misguided for
lack of a tail, — it noticed the pair of pretty little
wood-ducks contentedly eating some scraps of
meat. The adjutant-bird stood in seeming slum-
ber, a picture of solemn ugliness. The crow
skipped by the adjutant once or twice, with a

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

knowing cock of the head, as if inviting that
solemn bird to some fun; but the adjutant only
opened one of its eyes in a way inexpressibly
sly and then shut the eye again and took no
further notice of its fellow mischief-maker. For
a moment the crow looked doubtfully at its big
friend, well knowing the adjutant's wily ways,
and then with a series of sidling hops made up
to the wood-ducks, cocked its head leeringly at
them, snatched a piece of meat and scurried

laughter. The hilarity they caused seemed to
spur on both birds, as applause inspires actors,
and the feathered comedians continued their
drollery for round after round.

Of course there is always fun in the monkey
cage, but probably the sense of humor is not
more developed in the monkey than in many
other animals. The elephant, for example, can
enjoy a joke as much as any animal. Mr. Mer-
edith Nugent, the artist, tells of one of these

THE ELEPHANT WOULD CATCH ONE OF THE EARS OF THE Hll'POrO TAMUS AND GIVE IT A MISCHIEVOUS TWEAK.

off. The crow buried that piece and came back
for more and yet more, until there was no more
to be had. Then the crow returned to his
buried treasures and unearthed and re-buried
them very gleefully. But now it was the turn
of the adjutant. It slowly stretched itself and
then stalked to where the crow was making his
rounds of inspection. As the crow would bury
a piece of meat, the adjutant would dig it up
and leave it exposed ; thus undoing the work of
the crow as often as the latter would perform it.
And so they continued around and around the
cage, the one burying and the other unearthing,
and all with such droll solemnity that the spec-
tators about the cage were kept in roars of

giant jokers noticed by him in the zoological
gardens in Paris, while he was sketching there.
This elephant had made friends with the hippo-
potamus and was permitted to visit the latter,
and it was in the inclosure for the hippopota-
mus that he developed a fondness for practical
joking, which seemed to give him peculiar
pleasure.

He would reach over the big tank when the
hippopotamus was lolling in the water, sud-
denly catch one of the little ears of the latter
with the finger of his trunk and give it so mis-
chievous a tweak that the huge river-horse w^ould
roar out and angrily open his huge mouth. Then
the hippopotamus would be upon his guard and

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

sink out of sight, to come up again further away.
But, for all his seeming annoyance, he apparently
liked the fun himself; for, when he had come up
to the surface quite too far away for the elephant
to reach him, he would sink and try again to re-
appear just out of reach of the waving trunk.
The elephant evinced his enjoyment of the sport
by swaying to and fro in the manner of his kind,
and occasionally, too, he would open his mouth
in a comical resemblance to a laugh, — though
it must be said that the resemblance is purely
accidental, for though the elephant may laugh
he does not do it in that way.

Another joke enjoyed by this elephant was to
stand over some particularly choice morsel meant
for the hippopotamus, and thus prevent him from
eating it — to tease him, in fact. So great was
the elephant's enjoyment of this feat that he
would not only sway to express his pleasure, but
would make a rumbling sound which, with the
elephant, is more than anything else indicative
of delight. And the vexation of the hippopot-
amus was as evident as the enjoyment of the
elephant. The hippopotamus knew he was power-
less to coerce his friend, and so he would go away
and sulk until it was the pleasure of the elephant
to move from the coveted food. Occasionally,
however, the elephant would pretend to leave
it, and then return just in time to cheat the
hippopotamus.

It was an Indian elephant that betrayed a
taste for fun in this instance; but in the same
menagerie there is another case known, in which
an African elephant showed a similar disposition.
Only, in this instance, the elephant caught a
tartar and was temporarily cured of his jocular
attentions. The African elephant had formed a
friendship for a zebra; and, though the zebra
was shy for some time, it yielded at last to the
advances of its gigantic friend and permitted his
caresses without giving way to paroxysms of
fear. By and by the elephant became embold-
ened and grew a little rough, pulling the sensi-

tive zebra's legs and tail and ears. One day the
zebra wearied of its ponderous friend's teasing
and incontinently caught one of the elephant's
great, flapping ears between its teeth and bit so
hard and pulled so sturdily, that the elephant
was fain to sue for mercy in a series of shrill
trumpetings. Thereafter the big elephant was
respectful as well as affectionate to the zebra.

It ought to be said in the elephant's behalf,
that he is not always so fond of joking at the
expense of his friends. It is a singular fact that
a friend or pet seems to be a necessity to a cap-
tive elephant. In most cases that friend is selected
from among the smaller of the animals about it.
Frequently the friend is a dog belonging to the
keeper, and in many well-known instances a
helpless, little human baby has been selected as
the object of the elephant's affection. When
the elephant's chosen friend is clearly help-
less, the great beast has never been known to
tease or injure it, even in fun. Its tenderness
with a baby is one of the most pleasing sights
imaginable.

Mr. Nugent tells also of a practical joke which
he saw perpetrated by a tiger in the London
Zoo, although it was really unintentional on the
part of the tiger and rather grim in its results.
In the cage next the tiger's, and hidden from his
view by a board partition, was a tamandua, or
ant-bear, a singular-looking creature that lives
in its native country upon ants, capturing
myriads of these little insects by means of an
abnormally long tongue, coated with a sticky
substance to which the ants adhere. This tongue
the captive ant-bear often thrust out and moved
about in an inquisitive way. In an evil hour it
discovered a hole in the partition separating it
from the tiger. The tiger was lazily stretched
at length, one day, when this long tongue came
into his cage. His first manifestation of dis-
pleasure was an ugly snarl, his next a quick
blow with its claw-armed paw. The ant-bear
never repeated its experiment.

Vol. XVII.— io.

When the trees
are bare and Nature
has drawn her fleecy snow-curtain over the spec-
tacle of green field and flower-sprinkled hillside,
we may naturally give a thought to the slumber-
ing vitality under that soft white drapery. The
tenderest hearts will feel almost pity for the
thousands of seeds and roots doomed to an icy
bed during a long winter ; yet those same hearts
will thrill with unalloyed delight at the snap-
ping, crackling, frantic mass of popping corn, —
a live seed, every one, — although at each pop
a grain is forced into grotesque and unnatural
blossoming. The ear of corn has perhaps suf-
fered a harder fate by being garnered and housed
only to be roasted alive. But, notwithstanding
there is life in each seed, just as certainly as
there is in a hen's egg, we may be sure that the
sacrifice of its tiny vital existence is absolutely
painless ; and the more spiritual of us may reach
a higher plane of satisfaction by accepting its
pure white expansions, after the fatal heat, as
metaphorical angels' wings.

While we sit around the cozy hearth with red-
dened cheeks, after the bombardment in our pop-
per has ceased and the munching has begun, let
us listen to a short story about this transformation
which, in a twinkling, changes the yellow, stony
little kernel into a tender, white, delicious morsel,
monstrous and ragged. What is the power and
process of this fantastic jugglery ? Like all
white magic, it is simple when understood ; and
knowing the secret, we may find intellectual
pleasure also in what is so fascinating to the eye
and so grateful to the palate.

Under favorable circumstances one may oc-
casionally see, while popping corn, little puffs
of white vapor issuing from the popper. One
might reasonably presume this to be steam or
water- vapor; but, in order to make sure of it, I
popped half-a-dozen grains in a small beaker,
the mouth of which was stopped loosely with a
cork, holding the beaker over a gas flame. The
result was the generation of so much steam that
it hissed out around the cork and gave my fin-
gers a lively sensation of heat. This seemed
almost conclusive on that point, but it occurred
to me to weigh the corn before and after pop-
ping, and this led to the discovery that more
than ten per cent, of the weight of the corn is
lost in the process, and this loss is doubtless the
water which escapes. So that our popperful of
corn — a bulk between fifty and one hundred
times as great as it was originally — really weighs
less than when we started ! But this only half
explains what takes place when the grain ex-
plodes. It is not quite plain why the expanding
steam should puff the corn out into a crisp white
mass instead of blowing it to atoms, and the real
inwardness of the matter will be apparent only
by comparing the structure of the seed as Nature
has finished it with its structure after it is popped.
To do this, we must cut a very thin slice, thinner
than this paper, through the middle of the grain
of corn, and magnify it very highly. Figure i
shows a very small part of such a slice as it ap-
peared under my microscope. If the whole
grain could be seen enlarged to the same extent,
it would stand higher than one's head and look
like an immense bowlder. Now the whole grain

WHY CORN POPS.

is made up of little sacs, or bags, which botanists
call " cells," and the figure represents a group
of these cells from the center of a grain of rice-
corn as they appear in a slice, much in the
same way as we see the sacs in a thin slice
of lemon, only in the corn they are, of course,

far too small to be seen by the naked eye.
The heavier lines show the boundaries of the
cells. Each cell, of which there are thousands
in the entire grain, is packed tightly with little
granules of starch. These are shown in the fig-
ure completely filling up the cells, and it is to
this compact arrangement of starch-granules that
the corn owes its hardness. Much the greater
part of the grain consists of these cells crowded
full of starch, although the remainder is really
the most important, vital part : that is, the em-
bryo, which under proper conditions initiates
the growth of the seed ; the starch being merely
a little store of food upon which the young shoot
feeds until it is established and able to take care
of itself. And, by the way, the cereals which
are so extensively used as food are, like the corn,
largely composed of this same substance, starch.
Understanding now what" there is in the kernel
of corn, let us look at a thin slice of the same
corn after it is popped, and see if we can make
out what has become of the cells and the starch.
Figure 2 shows such a slice, magnified to the
same extent as the first, as well as it can be
represented by a diagram, for its delicacy and
transparency can not be readily represented on
paper. Here we have apparently a similar
structure of cells; but compare their size with the
other slice. They are smaller than the original
cells and much larger than the starch-granules,
so it is reasonable to conclude that these ap-
parent cells are the starch-granules themselves

swelled up by the steam. This is the fact ; so
they are not cells at all in the botanical sense.
Simple chemical tests prove that they are starch.
But the granules are no longer solid; they have
been blown up into vesicles, or balloons, and the
steam in forcing its escape not only ruptures
many of the vesicles, but splits and tears its
way all through the mass, making rifts and chan-
nels leading to the air. Most of them are too
minute, however, to be seen with the naked eye.
The figure shows one of these rifts, and the ragged
edges of the ruptured vesicles can be seen. On
the right side, part of the broken cell-wall is in-

dicated. Only the starchy part pops ; the em-
bryo, of which I have spoken, simply shrinks
and turns brown.

We may yet speculate on the details of the
process. In what condition is the interior of the
grain just before it explodes ? The common ex-
perience of the kitchen and laundry will help us
here. In making up the mixture for stiffening
clothes, the laundress puts starch into water and
boils it, and we all know that in this process the
starch loses its powdery character and becomes
blended with the water into a pasty, translucent
mass. The effect upon the individual starch-
granule is a softening and considerable increase
of its bulk and, finally, its rupture and diffusion
through the water. While we can not see the
inside of the grain at the critical moment when
it has all but burst, we may, in view of what we
now know, probably surmise the truth. Is it not
very likely that, as the grain gets hotter and
hotter, the moisture present in the cells, or in
the starch-granules themselves, softens them first,
and then, when the heat becomes too great to
permit its remaining in the fluid state, it suddenly
turns to steam, and the now plastic starch ex-

7 6

WHY CORN POPS.

pands in every direction forming the little vesicles
shown in the figure, losing at the same time, of
course, the moisture and thus becoming firm
and brittle again ?

This is the conclusion to which I have been
brought, and I think of the wonderful physics
of popped corn with great satisfaction whenever
I shake my popper over the glowing coals.

WINTER APPLES.

By Hattie Whitney.

What cheer is there that is half so good,
In the snowy waste of a winter night,

As a dancing fire of hickory wood,
And an easy-chair in its mellow light,

And a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek,

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek ?

A russet apple is fair to view,

With a tawny tint like an autumn leaf,

The warmth of a ripened corn-field's hue,
Or golden hint of a harvest sheaf;

And the wholesome breath of the finished year

Is held in a winesap's blooming sphere.

They bring you a thought of the orchard trees,
In blossomy April and leafy June,

And the sleepy droning of bumble-bees,
In the lazy light of the afternoon,

And tangled clover and bobolinks,

Tiger-lilies and garden pinks.

If you 've somewhere left, with its gables wide,
A farm-house set in an orchard old,

You '11 see it all in the winter-tide
At sight of a pippin's green-and-gold,

Or a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek,

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek.

KITTIE'S BEST FRIEND.

By M. Helen Lovett.

iAMMA ! Mamma ! " cried
Kittie Perry, running
into the house early
one afternoon and
throwing down her
school - books, " the
new people are mov-
ing in next door."

" So I see, Kittie,"
said Mrs. Perry.
" And, Mamma, there 's a little girl there just
about as big as me. I just saw her going in.
I 'm awfully glad ! I 'm 'most crazy for some
one to play with since the Cooks went away.
May Kingsley 's the only other girl on the
block, and we 're having a tiff now. I 'm going
right in to see that girl and find out what her
name is."

" Kittie ! " said her mother, catching her just
in time as she was flying out of the room, " you
must not go. The little girl's mother would n't
like it. I 'm sure I should n't have wished the
neighbors' children to come in here the day we
moved. We had confusion enough without
that."

" But, Mamma, I must, for I need some one
to play with, and May Kingsley and I are angry
at each other and I can't speak to her for a
week."

" I 'm afraid you will not be able to do that,
Kittie," said Mamma, laughing.

" I 'm afraid not," said Kittie, with a sigh.
"I '11 tell you how it was. I wanted to play
jackstones, and May wanted to play paper dolls,
and — " Mamma was trying to write a letter,
but Kittie's tongue kept on pitilessly for ten
minutes. Then she paused to take breath.
" Well, that 's the reason I can't speak to her
for a week, Mamma, and I must have some one
to play with. So, Mamma, why can't I go in
and see the girl next door ? "

"I 've told you why, Kittie. And now you

must not talk to me any more until I 've finished
this letter."

But Kittie kept on talking as she stood by
the window, for to talk to herself was better
than nothing. " There 's a sled ; that 's a girl's
sled, and I don't see any other, so I suppose it 's
the girl's. There are a doll's carriage and two
dolls' trunks. Why does n't the man turn them
so I can see better ? There ! Why, there 's a
name on the end ! C-a — oh, I see, Carrie; no,
Clara, — Clara L. Parsons. That 's a pretty
name. Oh, dear ! I wish to-morrow 'd come."

To-morrow did come, — that is, the next day
did (some people say " to-morrow does n't"), —
but it rained, and Kittie could n't go out in the
afternoon. Thursday, however, when she came
home from school, her new little neighbor was
sitting on the piazza with one of the trunks open
before her, and a beautiful doll on her lap.
Kittie glanced at her, and the little girl looked
so friendly that Kittie nodded. Her neighbor
nodded in reply. Kittie went up the steps.
" Would n't you like me to come and play with
you ? " she asked.

The little girl looked as if she would, but did
not make any reply.

" She 's shy," said Kittie to herself. " How
funny." Then aloud, " I '11 get my doll; only
it is n't nice as yours. Shall I ? " The girl
nodded.

Kittie ran into her own home, and up to the
play-room, where she snatched up her best doll,
rejecting the second best as not grand enough
to associate with Clara L. Parsons and her
family.

" Mamma," she called out, " I 'm going to
play with the girl next door."

" Did she ask you, Kittie ? " said Mrs. Perry,
coming into the hall.

" Yes, Mamma; at least, I asked if I should
come, and she' said yes. She would have asked
me, I know, but she seems shy ! "

KITTIE S BEST FRTEXD.

[Nov.

" Well, you can go for a few minutes. Don't
stay long." Kittie rushed off.

The little girl was sitting with her back turned,
and did not move until Kittie came all the way
up the steps ; but then she gave a pleased look
of welcome.

" Here 's my doll," said Kittie, sitting down.
" It is n't as nice as yours, is it ? " Clara nodded.
Kittie thought her a very polite girl, for Bella
was only two-thirds the size of Clara's doll.
" Her name 's Bella," she announced. " What
is your doll's name ? I suppose Clara Parsons
is your name, is n't it ? I see Parsons there on
your door-plate. Oh, may I look at the things
in your trunk ? What a lovely party-dress ! Did
you make it? No, I guess you did n't, 'cause I
see part of it 's made on the machine, and I
don't suppose you can sew on the machine.
Mamma won't let me touch ours. I made
that blue dress, though, — almost all myself.
What darling dolls' handkerchiefs, and oh, what
lovely little visiting-cards! 'Stella Parsons';
is that her name ? Stella rhymes with Bella,
does n't it ? they ought to be friends ; let 's
introduce them."

She held Bella up toward Stella, and Clara
held up Stella and made her shake hands with
her visitor and then kiss her.

" Now they 're acquainted," said Kittie. " Let
us pretend they have taken a great fancy to each
other, as I have to you. I wish you 'd be my
best friend, for I have n't one now. Fanny
Cook used to be, but she 's moved away ; she
lived in that yellow house across the way ; and
May Kingsley is n't ; we get mad at each other;
and she talks so much ; if you tell her a secret,
everybody is sure to know it. Oh, my name 's
Kittie Perry ; I did n't tell you, did I ? My
brother's name 's Frank, and my sister's name
is Amy, but they 're both big, nearly grown up,
so I don't have any one home to play with. That
lady at the second-story window is your mother,
I suppose ? That 's my mother in a blue dress
— on our stoop just now. That lady in brown
that went in with her is Mrs. Fraim. She 's
deaf and dumb. Did you ever know anybody
who was ? It 's so funny to see them talk. I
can say a few words. See. This means man ;
this means woman ; this means dinner ; this
means a bouquet of flowers."

Kittie made the motions as she spoke, and
Clara, smiling brightly and looking pleased,
made them too, but much more deftly and
gracefully than Kittie.

" And this means a baby with long clothes,"
continued Kittie. Clara shook her head, and
made a motion a little different.

" Oh, yes, that is it," said Kittie. " How
quick you learn ! I '11 teach you some more
some day ; then, if you ever meet a deaf person,
you can talk to them. But it must be dreadful,
must n't it ? — to be deaf and dumb, and not to
be able to talk. Why, / ',/ die / " (I almost be-
lieve Kittie would.) "And their language —
why I could n't talk as much in a minute as in
a week in our way — no, no, I mean in a week
as in a minute. Oh, what are you doing ? "

Clara had taken Bella and removed her dress.
She then picked up the dress that Kittie had
admired, and holding it against Stella showed
that it was too small ; then buttoning it on Bella
she laid the doll back in Kittie's lap and looked
up with a smile.

" Do you mean to give it to me ? " cried Kit-
tie, delighted. " Oh, you darling ! It 's aw-
fully pretty. Kiss the lady, Bella, my child.
Now I ought to do something for Stella. Let
me see, — when she has the measles, you send for
me, 'cause I 've had experience. She '11 be sure
to get them ; they 're very -relevant this spring.
Oh, dear, there 's Mamma calling me. Wait
here, and I '11 be back soon."

Mrs. Perry had called Kittie to go upstairs
and try on her new dress, and this occupied
nearly half an hour. When she returned to the
piazza next door, Clara had gone and so had
Stella and her trunk. Only Bella remained,
sitting on the doorstep in the party-dress which
had been presented to her, and holding in her
lap a piece of paper on which was written, in a
round, childish, but neat and legible hand : " I
can't wait any longer for you. I 'm going out
with Mamma. Come again to-morrow."

Kittie came late to the tea-table that evening,
and did not notice at first that everybody was
very much amused at something.

" Kittie," said Frank, " did you get acquainted
with the girl next door ? "

•' Yes ; she 's awfully nice ; her name 's Clara
Parsons. What made you call me in, that time,

!•]

KITTIE S BEST FRIEND.

Mamma? She said she could n't play much
longer, she had to go out with her mother ; and
when I came back she was gone."

" Did you have much conversation with her ? "
asked Papa.

" Yes, Papa ; I think I was there half an
hour."

" It was more than an hour," said Amy.
" I saw you. But I think you did all the
talking yourself."

Kittie was indignant at this accusation, al-
though it was not a new one. " It would n't be
very polite to go and see a person and never
say a word, would it ? " she said.

" You '11 never be so impolite, certainly," said
Frank.

" And she gave me the prettiest dress for
Bella. It was one that was in her doll's trunk,
but it was too small for her doll. I '11 show it
to you after tea."

" Now, Kittie," said Mamma, " try to remem-
ber the exact words she said about the dress, or
about anything else you talked of."

" The exact words," repeated Kittie, slowly.
She looked thoughtful, then perplexed. " It 's
queer, but somehow I forget the exact words."

" Well, Kittie, we don't blame you. Mrs.
Fraim was here this afternoon, and she was
speaking about the family next door, the Par-
sons. She knows them very well ; and this little
girl — - her name is Clara — is deaf and dumb.
She can't speak a word."

Kittie dropped the biscuit she was eating, and
the blankness which overspread her face was
too much for the gravity of the family. They all
laughed.

" So, Kittie," said Papa, " you must have had

all the talk to yourself, and, if I know you, you
must have enjoyed it exceedingly!"

Kittie still looked so dazed that Mamma came
to her assistance.

" What did she say about going out with her
mother ? "

" Why — she wrote that; but that was because
I was away."

" And what did she say when she gave you
the doll's dress ? "

" She put it on Bella and handed it to me.
Maybe she did n't say anything."

" And did she tell you her name was Clara
Parsons ? "

" Yes — why — well, I asked her and she said
yes; — no, I believe she nodded. She nodded
quite often. But if she can't hear how could
she tell when to nod ? "

Kittie asked this triumphantly.

" Mrs. Fraim says she is a bright little thing,
and often can tell what people are saying by
watching their lips ; and then perhaps she thought
it was polite to agree with you even when she
did n't understand."

" Now perhaps you '11 believe how much you
talk," said Frank. " I promise you ten cents if
you keep quiet all the rest of tea-time, because
I know you can't."

" Yes, I can," said Kittie ; " but I 'm not
going to."

The other day, when I was calling on Mrs.
Perry, I asked, " How is the little girl next door
whom I heard about, Kittie ? "

" She 's lovely," said Kittie. " I 'm going
to have her for my best friend; I don't care
who laughs. I can tell all my secrets to her."

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

By Frederick E. Partington.

TELL of a shoe and a boy;
of a bicycle and die river
Rhine, — of the Rhine that
creeps through a town
where years ago the mayor
and corporation, all for
love of the children and the
fear of a chance false note,
banished all the hand-or-
gans and the hurdy-gurdies
beyond the city walls. And
yet there is music still in the
streets of the old town, —
that same familiar, inces-
sant, ringing melody rising
forever from all the pave-
ments of Northern Eu-
rope, — the music of the wooden shoes. It was
Gretchen who played on them as she galloped
across the court-yard before sunrise ; it was the
butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
who played on them as they clattered so early
along the gabled streets of the city ; it was
surely the fish-wives and the flower-girls and
the milk -maids and blue-bloused Diensimanner
who pounded them on the pavements of the
market-place and sent up a symphony of
clickity-clicks and laughter ; but better than all
the rest, it was a thousand children, on a glori-
ous afternoon, who rushed out of school — a
common Volkschule — and made earth and air
and sky ring with the music of their wooden
shoes.

The rain was over, the sun was bursting forth
in floods of strange yellow light, and torrents of
water rushed madly along the gutters. Verily,
was there ever a river so mighty and delightful
to boys as this swollen street-tide after the
storm ? How they go plunging to the depths
of it ! And how these hundreds of lads, with
knapsacks on their backs, yelled with glee when
they saw it. It was the work of a second to
strip off the stockings and cram them into pock-

ets along with the strings and the marbles, — the
work of a second to do this, and, with a wooden
shoe in either hand, rush to the flooded street
and cry, " Who '11 have a race ? "

"fc/i !—Ach-ja!—Ich audi f—Ich — fch.'"
rang through the streets like the cries of the hot
crusaders. Every boy and a hundred girls ac-
cepted the challenge. And so, on either side
the way, they ranged themselves, and into the
rushing gutters launched their wooden shoes !
It was a sight for St. Nicholas ! Never since
the carnivals of Venice or the day of the great
Armada had there floated a fleet so wonderful
as this ! Hundreds and hundreds of shoes, —
large ones, small ones, broad ones, and narrow
ones, black and red and yellow and gray, some
bright with the trappings of leather and brass,
some hastily rigged with a pencil for mainmast
and paper for a sail, but all of them buoyant and
whizzing and careering along like the bouncing
galleys of the olden time. The street rocked
with excitement, and the excitement rose to
battle-cries when, as in all great races, the
shoes began to show individual qualities and
fall into classes — the great craft scudding
ahead and the smaller ones forging along in
one mad mob behind.

The course lay through the gutters of a long
narrow street, unbroken by cross-ways for an
eighth of a mile, when the rain-river suddenly
ended by turning abruptly and diving into a
sewer. This seemed to be generally known by
the children, for they took good care to follow
the shoes to the corner and snatch them up in
time to save them from a very yawning and
horrible abyss.

The race of the big boats had finished; the
owners had rushed back to the start again, and
now down the foaming torrent came bobbing
and bumping away the fleet of younger craft.
Little mattered it to the children — the question
of center-board sloops and cutters ! It was
simply a fleet of chubby little smacks with

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

pointed noses and fluted decks, and gay leather, "Juch!" screamed the boys, "Oswald wins!

and brazen nails around the gunwales. On Now grab thy shoe or thou 'It lose it!"

came the yachts, on flew the children. A hun- It was the acme of genuine excitement. There

dred feet, and the race is over. followed a wild scramble for the shoes. Oswald

THE FLEET OF WOODEN SHOES.

" See the little red-trimmed shoe," yelled a
boy with eyes like saucers! "See! — it 's
mine ! "

" And see the black one with a sail ! " cried a
girl, joyfully. " That 's mine ! "

The race was clearly between the two. Fifty
feet — thirty feet — twenty feet — ten! — and the
red-trimmed one was far ahead !
Vol.. XVH. — ii.

the winner, frantic with joy, sprang forward to
catch his own, when alas ! alas ! he tripped and
fell; and alas! and ten times alas! away shot
the shoe, turned the fatal corner, and swish! —
disappeared through the great black hole of the
sewer! Poor Oswald and his fellows stood dazed.
Never in his whole nine years of life had Os-
wald known a calamity such as this.

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

[Nov.

" It 's gone ! It 's lost ! Ach ! It 's lost ! " he
cried, wringing his hands while the tears rained
down his cheeks.

And there was no help for it. What mattered
it to Oswald even if some tender-hearted boys

and with the confused and liberal prompting of
the excited throng, he quickly told the story.

Seth listened perplexed, till suddenly, all like
a flash, came a thought to his bright little mind.

" Hurrah ! " he cried almost aloud. And then,

£. ..--■'' , r

lX&0

THE KACE.

(SEE NEXT PAGE.)

did offer him their marbles ? What mattered it
even if a sweet little maiden did try to console
him and wipe the tears from his eyes with the
corner of her checkered apron ? Nay, the whole
world was nothing, compared to that shoe. It
was lost; and if he had to go home without it,
he knew that he might as well have been lost
himself. His grief was desperate, and still he
stood weeping and still the children vainly
offered sympathy, when round the corner ap-
peared Seth Hardy on his bicycle. It was about
the only one in the whole town where Seth was
attending school, and there was not a boy or
a girl to whom the magic wheel and its rider
were not well known.

"See the Amerikaner / " cried the crowd, as
Seth came whirling along.

He spied the troop of children, noticed Os-
wald in tears, and stopped to learn the cause.

" Ach ! mein Herr, it 's gone — lost ! "

" What is gone ? "

" My shoe, my shoe ! " And between the sobs,

with right forefinger in the palm of his left hand,
— just as Herr Dr. N. of the school always
did, — he reasoned it out so quickly that the Ger-
man boys stood dumb with wonder. "Also!"
he continued, half in German, " gutter to sewer
— sewer to — it must turn into Schumann
Strasse, run along Wilhelm Strasse, and then,
bang ! into the Rhine ! "

And before a lad of them could say Jack
Robinson in German, off flew Seth on his
bicycle toward the river. Scores and scores of
children rushed panting and shouting after him,
while little Oswald Keller, with a lone shoe
under his arm, dashed the tears away, and,
though hardly realizing what it all meant, sped
like a deer two rods ahead of them all. A whirl
to the left, a spin of a block, a whirl to the right,
and Seth had reached the Rhine. The rains
of many days had swollen it to the danger point
and the water was still rising. Another foot
and, instead of the sewers rushing into the Rhine,
the Rhine would be rushing into the sewers.

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

Tumping from his wheel, Seth ran to the bank,
peered up and down and caught the spot where,
whirling in muddy commotion, the sewer met
the river. Thither he flew, — the crowd with
him, — when, just as he had snatched an oar for
stopping the fugitive the moment it appeared,
a hundred throats yelled in a tremble of excite-
ment, " Ach ! The shoe ! The shoe ! " And
lo ! out from the black hole and far into the
stream shot the wooden shoe. Seth had not
been quick enough, and now it was beyond his
reach. He saw it whirl and whirl, and dally in
an eddy ; and then, to his dismay and the grief
of them all, saw it slowly enter the main current
and speed away to the north.

' : Stay here," cried Seth excitedly to Oswald
and the rest. '-Stay here — I '11 soon be back,"
and jumping on the bicycle again, he laid his
head close to the very handle and vanished
down the road that wound along the river.

" 'T is a race with the Rhine," he thought,
" and it 's a poor wheel that can't win it ! " And
away he went, till after a stretch of two miles he

came to the bend and the village of L .

The banks were lined with boats and the men
were busy bailing out and scouring.

" It 's a shoe ! " screamed Seth, as he came
flying among them. " It 's a shoe ! It 's coming
yonder — this side the middle of the river — and
I '11 give five marks to any man that picks it up!"

How many men leaped into their boats, and
how many boats shot into the Rhine, or what
the wives, and the people, and the kind old vil-
lage priest, and the burly fat mayor all thought
will never be known ; but the women stood
wringing their hands, and the priest said some-
thing solemn in Latin, and the mayor took out
his note-book as if, indeed, a man were drown-
ing. But Seth saw nothing except the boats.

He saw them scatter, and it seemed to him as if
they stretched away for miles. He saw them
stemming the current and darting back and
forth like fish ; and then of a sudden he heard a
cry and saw the boats all pulling for the shoe.
He saw — ah ! joy of earth ! — it was the shoe !
and the boatmen coming reverently forward and
mumbling, and bowing, and stammering, and
placing at last in his hands the precious little
red-bound runaway.

The mayor stared, the priest stared, the women
stared. " And the body ? " they gasped. " Where
is the body? "

Seth was too excited to explain. He flung
the five marks to the man, jumped to his wheel
again, and, while the people chattered and shook
their heads, he vanished, it seemed to them, into
the very skies above.

And so he came speedily to where the chil-
dren waited, and amid the shouts of bravo/ and
blessings he restored the shoe to little Oswald ;
and then with the happy owner he went to the
humble home and, telling the tale to the mother
Gretchen, begged the shoes away for the price
of a new and a better pair.

And it came to pass after many, many months,
when Seth had left school and had returned to
his home in America, that everybody would ask
about a funny little shoe that stood with the
cups, and the vases, and the beautiful bric-a-
brac in the nooks of a fine old library. It was
the same wonderful shoe of which you have
just been reading. I am sure it is the shoe, for
here it is before my very eyes, with the same
pointed toe, and the same fluted upper and
the same gay leather and shiny brass nails that
it had on the day when it sailed in the streets
and under the ground and raced with a bicycle
down the swollen Rhine.

8 4

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

(Nov.

JACK-IN-THE -PULPIT.

A welcome to us all, my hearers ! We all have
been parted for a time, and now that November
brings us together again in her crisp, sudden way,
we may as well proceed to business as if nothing
had happened.

The birds, as you know, bring many pleasant let-
ters to your Jack from friends all over the world,
but seldom has so pleasant a letter been dropped
on this pulpit as this which you now shall hear :

Dear Jack-tn-the-Pulpit : Are you aware that you
have an Italian cousin, who lives at Mentone, and is
called // Capuccino ? (the little friar.) There is a clois-
ter near by, where some Capuchin friars dwell, and look
out at the gay world from beneath their brown hoods.
But this cousin seem to be a hermit as well as a friar, for
he lives out-of-doors, all by himself. When he preaches
it certainly is in the Italian language. But he is not so
fortunate as to possess a department of his own in a
charming magazine ; and therefore it is probable he
knows much more than he ever tells. His name is
Brother Arum Arisarum ; and he has intrusted to me a
little rhymed letter of greeting to his American cousin.

E. C.

I am a little friar.

Beneath a wild-rose brier
I tell my beads of dew.

My cousin, I admire

Your preaching, and desire
To write some words to you.

All in my pulpit green,
Quite like yourself, I 'm seen

When little people go
Playing their games between
The lemon boughs that lean

From slopes of Monaco.

'Tis strange they never task
My skill, nor questions ask

Such as to you they bring.
My cowl might be mask
Of zany, or a cask

Empty of everything!

They leave me here alone,
A hermit by a stone,

The shadowy woods within;
I think they have not known
A friend to every one

Is the poor Capuchin.

Now if you should intend
Some words to me to send,

The birds, flying south, will bear 'em;
How gladly will I bend
My hood to hear ! Your friend,

Frci Arum Arisarum.

I thank you very much, Cousin Arisarum, for this
fair greeting, and commend to you these thousands
of good children who, like myself, have become
true friends of yours through your gentle message.
No longer shall you feel alone, "a hermit by a
stone," for crowds and crowds of listening children
will be near you, "the shadowy woods wi thin, " ready
to catch the nod of your little brown hood.

the knowing woodpecker.

San Francisco, California.
Dear Jack : In one of your pleasant talks I
learned how Mexican birds store acorns for winter
use. Here is an extract from a newspaper, in which
it seems to me the birds show even more intelli-
gence than their Mexican cousins. Do any o: r your
California readers know it to be true ? Avis.

In California the woodpecker stores acorns away
although he never eats them. He bores several holes
differing slightly in size, at the fall of the year, invariably
in a pine tree. Then he hnds an acorn, which he adjusts
to one of the holes prepared for its reception. But he
does not eat the acorn, for, as a rule, he is not a vegeta-
rian. His object in storing away the acorns exhibits
foresight and a knowledge of results more akin to reason
than to instinct. The succeeding winter the acorn re-
mains intact, but, becoming saturated, is predisposed to
decay, when it is attacked by maggots, which seem to
delight in this special food. It is then that the wood-
pecker reaps the harvest his wisdom has provided, at a
time when, the ground being covered with snow, he
would experience a difficulty otherwise in obtaining suit-
able or palatable food.

THE FRIGATE-BIRD.

Have any of my hearers ever seen a live frigate-
bird? It is said that this bird is the swiftest flyer
known. Read about him, my friends, and tell your
Jack how he obtained this nautical name. Give,
too, his highest record of speed according to good
authorities.

THAT BICYCLE PATH.

CERTAIN boys hereabout have asked your Jack
about a proposed bicycle road, — or, rather, path —
from New York to Connecticut, for which they have
been anxiously waiting ; but this pulpit could give
them no information on the subject. Practical
bicyclers generally skim by so rapidly that it is
not worth while to ask questions of them ; and
beginners usually are too much occupied, in pick-
ing themselves up and getting on again, to take
much interest in very long roads — so tidings of

9-]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

this new project have been hard to obtain. Here
comes a letter from Troy, however, which throws
either light or darkness upon it, according to the
way one takes it.

Troy, N. Y.

Dear Jack-i.v-the-Pl'lpit: I am a boy and a bicycler,
and therefore I hailed with delight a paragraph which I
saw in the Portland Transcript, a good paper which
sometimes is sent to us by a down-east relative. This
is it :

" Mr. A. G. Fisher, of New Haven, Conn., proposes
to build a cinder path from New York to New Haven
for the benefit of bicycle riders. It is to be three feet
in width and laid at the side of the present road ; to be
built, however, only where the existing roads are not
good. The path will be about seventy miles in length,
and the average cost of building is estimated at $75 per
mile, or a total of $5250. A little over ten per cent, of
the amount has already been subscribed. The various
bicycle clubs are expected to assist the enterprise."

Now, I 'd like to know how this proposed road is get-
ting on, and, instead of bothering Mr. A. G. Fisher, of
New Haven, with the question, I think I '11 ask the wide-
awake crowd around your pulpit if they can tell me any-
thing about the project. Is it alive or not ? and if it 's
alive, how is it ? Your young friend, T. G. H .

RED SCHOOLHOUSE QUERIES.

WHO among my hearers can tell the origin of
the words TINKER and ALMANAC ? And why is
an inn-keeper often called a LANDLORD ?

A VETERAN ROSE-BUSH.

Dear Jack : I have read lately that the oldest rose-
bush in the world, of which there is authentic record,
grows in a church-yard, and against the old church at
Hildesheim, Germany. The main stem is thicker than
a man's body, but it has required over eight hundred
years to attain this remarkable size.

Have any of your " chicks " ever seen this huge rose-
bush in bloom ?

Yours respectfully, A BIG Boy.

A NEBRASKA SHOW.

A friend, to whom many thanks are due, has
sent you all the way from Nebraska a photograph
of a dozen or more of the finest pumpkins that
ever gladdened human hearts on Thanksgiving day.

There is no need of your Jack giving you any agri-
cultural rhetoric on this occasion. The pumpkins
speak for themselves. One of them (probably
the fine specimen in the lower left-hand corner)
measured, I am told, exactly eight feet in circum-
ference ; that is, it would take a string eight feet
long to go around it. Well, well ! Thousands of
you might have been supplied with pies, this
month, from this one Nebraska field alone !

Before turning to another subject, let us thank
the cheery-looking Nebraskan, in the corner, for
giving us an opportunity to compare the relative
sizes of vegetable and man.

•V"' 1
Wkmm

■SilklMSSi v

BIG PUMPKINS. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN A NEBRASKA PUMPKIX-FIEL.D.)

A CONSTANT KEAUER.

OVER THE WALL.

By Anna H. Branch.

I like to sit beside a wall
Among the grasses green.
And think, if over I should peep,
What things might there be seen.

Perhaps I 'd see bold Robin Hood
With arrows, bow, and brand ;
He 'd fix his outlawed eyes on me
And shake a threatening hand.

Then, in some terror, I decide
That it can not be he ;

But that some nymph from Fairyland
Is waiting there for me.

And then I think that — oh ! perhaps—
The world has quite turned over,
And China and Japan have come
This side the sky's blue cover.

At that, I can not stand it more,
But over have to look.
And see — the dear old every-day
( ireen meadow, and the brook !

iRi'cK^rrfs

(A r onserise Verse. )

Once there lived a little gnome,
Who had made his little home
Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth.
He was full of fun and frolic,
. But his wife was melancholic,
And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth.

He had tried her with a monkey,

And a parrot and a donkey,

And a pig that squealed whene'er he pulled its tail, tail, tail.

But though he laughed himself

Into fits, the jolly elf,

Still his wifey's melancholy did not fail, fail, fail.

" I will hie me," said the gnome,
" From my worthy earthy home,

I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men.

Something funny there must be, that will make her say 'He! he !

I will find it, and will bring it her again, 'gain, 'gain."

So he traveled here
and there,

And he saw the Blink-
ing Bear,

And the Pattypol
whose eyes are
in his tail, tail,
tail.

THE LITTLE GNOME.

[Nov.

He saw the Chingo Chee,

And a lovely sight was he,

With a ringlet, and a ribbon

on his nose, nose, nose.

THE OCTOPUS AND WHALE

And the Octopus a-waltzing
with the whale, whale,
whale.

And the Cantilunar Dog,
Who was throwing cotton

flannel at his foes,

foes, foes.

THE CANTILUNAR DOG.

THE LITTLE GNOME. 89

All these the little gnome

Transported to his home,

And set them down before his weeping wife, wife, wife.

But she only cried and cried,

And she sobbywobbed and sighed,

Till she really was in danger of her life, life, life.

Then the gnome was in despair,
And he tore his purple hair,

And he sat him down in sorrow on a stone, stone, stone.
' I, too," he said, " will cry,
Till I tumble down and die,
For I 've had enough of laughing all alone, 'lone, 'lone."

His tears they flowed away

Like a rivulet at play,

With a bubble, gubble, rubble, o'er the ground, ground, ground.

But when this his wifey saw,

She loudly cried, " Haw ! haw !

Here, at last, is something funny you have found, found, found."

She laughed, " Ho ! ho ! he ! he ! "

And she chuckled loud with glee,

And she wiped away her little husband's tears, tears, tears.

And since then, through wind and weather,

They have said " He ! he ! " together,

For several hundred thousand merry years, years, years.

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

By Mary V. Worstell.

A rich man once said -to me, " I have heard books ? I fancy that he did. But the busy

people say that if they had enough money they man who purchased that wonderful bootjack

could easily select Christmas gifts. Now, for doubtless had given no thought to the matter

the last two hours, I have been trying to find of his Christmas gifts until nearly the 25th of

something to suit my son-in-law. Finally, in de- December, that consummate flower of die

spair, I have bought him a fifty-dollar bootjack whole year, and then he must needs buy one

that you could n't hire me to keep in the house." of the first things he saw, provided only that it

A fifty-dollar bootjack ! What a confused did not cost too much or too little,
jumble my mind was for the next few minutes. With the bootjack incident still in my mind,

Bootjacks, indeed! I was thinking of a book- I shall suggest various gifts, just by way of be-

store I had visited that morning — of the man}' nevolently preventing my fellow-creatures from

beautiful books, artistically printed and richly receiving absurd or useless presents. Those who

bound, which those fifty dollars would have are wealthy can usually find lovely and artistic

purchased. Did not the son-in-law care for gifts at Tiffany's or stores of similar rank. My
Vol. XVIL— 12.

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

suggestions are for those lucky individuals with
■whom money is not so plentiful as to make the
wish for a thing and its possession synonymous.

The most puzzling task at Christmas is to
select presents for fathers and brothers. Two
years ago, a certain young woman (this by way
of reminiscence) failed to find anything she
thought suitable for her brother. But after much
perplexity a coffee cup and saucer, daintily
decorated, was selected, and it was gratefully
used at about three hundred and sixty breakfasts
during the following year. The next year a cut-
glass salt-cellar and pepper-box were given. Be-
sides these and similar articles, one might try-
canvas or linen slipper-cases, made to hang
against the wall, inkstands and other articles
for desks, silver match-boxes, razors (for which
the traditional penny should be exacted), shaving-
glasses, cases of shaving-paper, or, that always
welcome friend, a silk muffler. A case for
carrying collars and cuffs when traveling, is a
useful present for many. The outside may be
of any material available, and the lining should
be of silk ; but a stiff interlining of buckram
should be inserted. In short, make it like a
music-roll, but not so wide, and fasten it with a
fancy leather strap and buckle. Decorate the
outside with some pretty device, — the initials
or monogram of the prospective owner.

I shall make no further suggestions of articles
especially suitable for the sterner sex, but among
the presents which will do equally well for either
father or mother, brother or sister, may be
mentioned umbrellas; umbrella-cases; chairs of
more or less elaborate workmanship, from the
pretty wicker or rattan chair to those which are
profusely carved or richly upholstered ; opera-
glasses, gloves, handkerchiefs and handkerchief-
cases, gold pencils, fountain pens, card-cases,
napkin-rings, and books.

A little rule of mine in buying books may not
come amiss. It is this : When a person's means
will permit only a small library, never buy any
book that will not bear reading more than once.
Still, most of what is called " current literature"
may be bought for a low price, the chances
being that its flimsy binding will outwear its
popularity.

This is what Charles Lamb says about the
binding of books : " To be strong-backed and

[Nov.

neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume.
Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be
afforded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of
books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of
magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille
or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is our
costume. A Shakspere or a Milton (unless the
first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out
in gay apparel. The possession of them confers
no distinction. The exterior of them (the things
themselves being so common), strange to say,
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of
property in the owner. Thomson's ' Seasons,'
again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn and
dog's-eared."

In regard to reading good books, Ruskin says :

" Do you know, if you read this, you cannot
read that — that what you lose to-day you can-
not gain to-morrow ? Will you go and gossip
with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when
you may talk with queens and kings ; or flatter
yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness
of your own claims to respect that you jostle
with the common crowd for entree here, and
audience there, when all the while this eternal
court is open to you, with its society wide as
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen,
and the mighty, of every place and time ?
Into that you may enter always; in that you
may take fellowship and rank according to
your wish ; from that, once entered into it, you
can never be outcast but by your own fault ; by
your aristocracy of companionship there, your
own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly
tested, and the motives with which you strive
to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that
are in them, by the place you desire to take in
this company of the dead.

" ' The place you desire,' and the place you
fit yourself for, I must also say; because, ob-
serve, this court of the past differs from all living
aristocracy in this: — it is open to labor and
to merit, but to nothing else. No wealth will-
bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the
guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep
sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters
there."

A small bookcase need not be expensive to
be pretty, and a small revolving bookcase, made

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

especially for holding books of reference, is a
delight to a reader.

Many of the large publishing houses keep on
sale pictures of authors. Twenty-five cents will
buy the portrait of almost any well-known au-
thor. These are usually wood-engravings and
excellent of their kind, well printed on good
paper, in size about ten by twelve inches. For
the same picture on India paper (which, of
course, is more durable and admits of a finer
impression) one dollar may be asked, and the
extra money will be well spent. A neatly framed
portrait of the favorite author of a friend will
make a charming gift at but small cost.

Other pictures — photographs of famous pic-
tures, for instance — may be bought at a low
figure and framed. But pictures are like books :
there is an infinite variety to choose from, and
the price for either can be made high enough to
suit the most lavish giver.

Many make it a practice to subscribe to some
favorite magazine or paper, as a Christmas gift ;
and those who wish to confer an ever new
pleasure may well bear this in mind. With so
many capital publications, devoted to all imag-
inable tastes and pursuits, a choice will not be
difficult. Children, especially, enjoy receiving
their own papers and magazines, and a present
of this kind can, by a payment far from large,
be guaranteed to last one year — a surety which
can never be furnished with any toy, no matter
how expensive or durable.

Very young girls have a weakness for ribbons,
sashes, perfumery, bangles, and fancy pins, and
one can do worse than to moderately indulge
these innocent vanities.

Family servants should share the Christmas
joy ; and appropriate gifts, such as print or neat
woolen dresses, aprons, or a pocketbook with
perhaps a coin or bill in it, will never come amiss.

The mothers — the housekeepers — are the
easiest to cater for at this season of puzzled
shoppers. There are hundreds of dainty arti-
cles which the true home-maker will welcome.
Anything to beautify the home can hardly fail

to please; — silver, china, articles of cut-glass, or
choice napery for the table, a Japanese umbrella-
stand, a work-basket prettily fitted up and with
perhaps a silver or gold thimble in its own little
pocket, a linen scarf for the sideboard embroid-
ered or finished with " drawn work," a shop-
ping-bag, or embroidered scarfs of the pretty
China silks now so much used in decoration.
Other gifts might be vinaigrettes, silver glove-
buttoners, crocheted slippers, dainty aprons,
ivory brushes and combs, stationery, pocket-
books, card-cases or address-books. In pre-
senting any of the latter gifts it will show an
added thoughtfulness on the part of the giver
to have the name, or at least the initials, of the
recipient printed in gilt letters on the article, if
it be of leather. The added cost for this work
is very trifling. In the same way the value of a
box of stationery is much enhanced if the giver
has had the address of the recipient stamped
upon the upper right-hand corner of the paper.
A little time and thoughtful work may produce
very delightful results. A lady of my acquaint-
ance was greatly pleased with a certain beautiful
story which appeared in a well-known weekly
paper. It was not possible to obtain the story in
any other form, so her niece bought two copies
of the paper containing it, as it was printed on
both sides of the page. After cutting the story
out neatly in columns and pasting these into one
long strip, the whole piece was measured and
then carefully pasted in even double columns
upon sheets of heavy paper of a size which left
a broad margin. Then the margins were deco-
rated with delicate sprays of flowers painted in
sepia, and the name of the story in fancy letters
appeared on the thicker sheet of paper which
served as a cover. Round holes were made with
an instrument which is manufactured for that
purpose, and all the sheets, eleven in number,
were tied together with a ribbon. On the last
page a copy of a famous painting of the Ma-
donna, prominently mentioned in the story, was
mounted. The result was a really lovely little
gift-book, sure to please her who received it.

EDITORIAL NOTE.

OUR readers will be interested in comparing the two descriptions of rabbit-hunting published in this

number: " Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California" and a "Pueblo

Rabbit-hunt." Between the civilized "coursing" and the savage

" drive " the contrast is certainly striking.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Dear St. Nicholas :

Washington, D. C.

I have the honor, this morning, to be,

One of a committee, that numbers but three,

To ask you a question concerning the fate

Of one who wrote for your pages of late.

'T is " [ack-in-the- Pulpit," whose loss we bewail,

The parson who told us full many a tale,

Instructive and funny his sermons to all.

Now tell your " Dear Reader," has Jack had a fall?

Has he misused the funds that others have earned ?

Has he taught us a lesson that he has n't learned?

Has he jilted the " School-ma'am," that lamb of his fold,

Or doctrines advanced that some thought too bold ?

If you know where he is, you had best make it known,

Or suspicion will rest on old St. Nick alone.

When last Jack was seen with your authors renowned,

He seemed hale and hearty — in every way sound.

Now do solve the mystery that hangs over Jack,

And if it is possible please have him back.

Vive le St. Nicholas, in whom I delight.

Your ardent admirer, Ethel P. Wright.

This cheery correspondent, and all Jack's other
friends, will see that he is again in his pulpit this
month. Like other preachers, he must have a
vacation now and then.

And, by the way, Jack-in-the-Pulpit requests
us to convey his thanks to IMollie U. F., A'ag-
rom, J. H. Dan-ell, May Waring, Dannie G.,
Mildred D. G., and Paul Gage, for the good let-
ters they sent him in reply to Aimee Lequeux D.'s
question given in the May St. NICHOLAS. The
letters were cordially enjoyed, but were received
too late to be acknowledged with the other letters
on the banana question.

Perhaps some of the readers of the St. Nicholas may
be surprised to know that the King, Queen and Prin-
cesses go about the town just like other people — some-
times in a carriage, or on horseback, and often walk about
the streets unattended. But when there is any special
ceremony, there is a gilt coach, with grooms in blue
and silver liveries, and magnificent horses. But perhaps
everyone is not so much interested in royalty as I am, so
I will talk of something else. There are a great many
ruins here, the most beautiful being the Acropolis. But
I must not attempt to describe them. Besides the ruins,
there are very beautiful houses (really palaces) and mag-
nificent streets. The pavement on the principal streets
must be about thirty feet wide on each side, and the road
still wider. I must say, before I stop writing, that, of all
the stories I have yet read in the St. Nicholas, " Little
Lord Faunlleroy" and "Juan and Juanita" are my
favorites. I have a little sister who enjoys the pictures
very much.

Now, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, from your inter-
ested reader, Mabel M .

Athens, Greece.
Dear St. Nicholas : I do not remember to have
ever seen a letter from Athens in your " Letter-box," so
I thought that some of your readers might like to know
something about it. The people are very dark, and it is
rare to find any fair ones. I was only nine years old
when I left America, and now I am fourteen. Greek is
very difficult, and a person not knowing the language
might often think the people quarreling, they talk so very
loud and use so many gestures. Greek girls do not, as
a rule, go to school, but they have private teachers and
governesses. Almost all the children speak several lan-
guages, and you often find a little child five or six years
old who can speak Greek, English, German, and French.

Baltimore, Md.
Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your magazine
for nearly a year, and are very fond of it. We visited
Europe about a year ago, and stayed there for six months.
We were led to take your magazine by hearing such
favorable comments passed upon it while we were in
Athens, Greece. We visited various places of interest,
among which were Geneva, Paris, London, Liverpool,
Rome, and numerous other cities. While in Geneva we
had quite a singular adventure. We were out driving,
one sultry afternoon, when our carriage was stopped,
and two fierce-looking men approached us, compelling
us to give up all our valuables. Of course we were
obliged to comply with their wishes, but very reluctantly.
Hoping to see this letter published in your next number,
Your admiring readers, May AND FLORA.

Lily Bay, Me.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your August number
an article about " Flower Ladies." I have often played
it, only rather more elaborately. Perhaps you would
like to know my way.

I used to take a bud or seed-vessel, leaving about two
inches of stalk. A daisy bud or a very green poppy-
seed is the best, using the bud or seed-vessel as a head,
and slipping the stalk through the petal of a morning-
glory flower. We did not always use morning-glory
flowers, but sometimes nasturtium blossoms with enough
of the little tube cut off to allow the stalk to pass through,
so making a gill doll with a full skirt.

THE LETTER-BOX.

A still gayer dress was one I made by taking the petals
of a poppy and fastening them around the waist of the
doll with grass or thread, and then putting on the leaves
of a different-colored poppy arranged as a cape.

Hats were made by taking the blossom of a sweet-pea
and opening the lower petals wide enough to insert the
head, and running a pin or stiff piece of grass through
from the calyx, which is left on, into the head. A sim-
pler way of making hats is to take a blossom of the butter-
and-eggs (Antirrhinum) and open the mouth wide enough
to inclose the head. We used to call them " riding-hats."
Faces can be made by pressing the point of a pin into
the seed. I have never seen this done except with a
poppy-head.

Hoping that my St. Nicholas girl friends who are
interested in the " Flower Ladies " will improve and
enlarge on my pattern-book, I remain, sincerely yours,

Eleanor M. F .

Canton, O.

Dear St. Nicholas : Although I have taken you for
nearly five years, I have never written to you before, and
I hope this letter will have the honor of being printed in
the " Letter-box," for the reason that it is from a " Johns-
town flood sufferer," if for no other.

Our family was (with the exception of myself, I being
two miles from town visiting) in the thickest part of the
flood. They were on the roof of the house when it floated
from its foundation and directly opposite the school-
house, which was a block away from us before the flood.

They then climbed over houses, debris, etc., and got
in the school-house. This was about five o'clock in the
evening of that disastrous day. They did not get out until
six o'clock the next evening. During all that time they
did not have a bite to eat. I had my St. Nicholas all
bound, but the books went with our house in the flood. I
have not seen but one copy of St. Nicholas since May
31, 18S9, and do not expect to see one of my own for a
great while.

Your interested non-reader, Alice L. S .

P. S. — Not one of my relatives was lost in the flood,
but many friends were. We are going back to Johns-
town in the fall.

Greenwood Lake, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas : I enjoy having my Papa read
to my sisters and my brothers and myself the stories in
St. Nicholas.

I will tell you a funny story. At our house, whenever
we are naughty, we have another name.

We don't belong to our family at all, but to the Hop-
scotch family. My big sister is'Peggerty, the next one
Betsy, or Elizabeth Jane, and my big brother is Jede-
diah, and my little brothers Obediah and Abimeleck, and
my sister, that 's only a little older than I, whose letter
you printed in your September St. Nicholas, is Malinda,
and Papa and Mamma, if they were ever naughty, would
be Ahasuerius and Semarimus, and my name is Melvina.

If we are naughty, my Papa says, " Peggerty, Elizabeth
Jane, Jedediah, Malinda, Melvina, Obediah, and Abime-
leck, go right to your rooms and stay there until I send
for you ! "

I tell you we do not, any of us, like to be called a
member of the Hopscotch family !

Nora McD , seven years old.

The last time I wrote to you, I was in Virginia. I in-
tended to write and tell you about New Orleans, when
I lived there. The trip down South was a very pleasant
one to us. We went down in the latter part of October,
just when the cotton is being picked. It is very interest-
ing to see the negroes picking ; they hold a large basket
on their heads, with one hand, and with the other they
pick the cotton. When one hand is quite full they reach
up and put the contents in the basket. The prettiest
sight that I saw in my three-days' journey south, was
the Florida moss which hangs from the trees; this moss
is of a dull, dusty gray ; when picked it will sometimes
turn black.

I have stood on the battle-ground at New Orleans,
and have also been on top of Jackson Monument. This
monument is built of white stone, and is not complete ;
some of the stones on top are loose and liable to fall
at any moment. When in the South I used to amuse
myself by watching the little lizards running up and
down the trees. They are very peculiar ; when running
up the bark of a tree, they turn dark, but as soon as
they touch the green leaves they are green.

The prettiest cemetery that I ever saw is the Chal-
mette National Cemetery; in June (the month of roses)
it is a bower of flowers. Flowers of every kind and
description grow in profusion. Among the flowers are
banana-palms and orange trees ; the latter, when in
bloom, scent the whole cemetery.

Just before you get to the cemetery is an old, old
powder-house, that was built before the war ; it is so
old that it is nearly tumbling over.

Attached to Jackson barracks is a large magnolia
grove, where the magnolias blossom and fade. They
perfume the whole barracks.

I have taken you for three years and could not do
without you. Every month, when it draws near the
time for your arrival, the mail is carefully watched.

I was born in the West, but I love the South. This
is the first time I have been North. I remain, your
devoted reader and admirer, M. T. S.

New York City.

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about a
"Martha Washington Fancy Dress Party" which I
attended on the Centennial Day.

It was given by a friend of mine, and I wore a gown
my great-grandmother wore on the day of Washington's
Inauguration. It was made of a dark red, of an ordinary
material, and a part of it was lined with bed-licking.
The boys took different characters in American history,
as the girls did, and looked very old-fashioned in their
white wigs, smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and military coats.

We danced the minuet and other old dances, and the
ice-cream was served up in two different forms, — one
the head of Martha, and the other of George Washington.

I enjoy your magazine so very much, and can hardly
wait for it to come every month. Your loving friend
and admirer, Aida St. Clair D .

Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: I promised to write to you
some time ago, but have never done so. I am an army
girl, and am constantly moving about. I love to travel.

We acknowdedge, with thanks, the receipt of pleasant
letters from the young friends wdiose names follow :
Lilian M., E. P., Eleanor M., Alice F. Mitchell, Joseph-
ine Sherwood, S. Howard Armstrong, M. C. S., Hen-
riette de R., Julia Babcock, Carrie and Fannie Bennet,
Hazel M. Muncey, Kittle K. Xyce, Reba I. and Fannie,
James H., Maria D. Malone, Millie K. and Rose L. ,
E. Janney, Elizabeth D., Kate Guthrie, Lisa D. Blood-
good, Margaret S., Cora M. S. , Ortie C. Dake, Martha
Frederick. Ethel P. Wright, Kate Krutz, Elsie R., Charles
T. H., " Lizzie," Martha T. Mann, Sara M. Scribner,
Lilian, Mabel, Maude, and Cecile, Violet C, Ruth Owen
Sturges.

THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION.— 1888-89.

To St. Nicholas, the Agassiz Association (which was
begun in this magazine) owes a new debt of gratitude.
Within two months after our annual report appeared in
St. Nicholas last November, responsive letters were
received from more than three hundred persons, and
more than one hundred new branch societies, or Chap-
ters, were organized. I wish the number might be
doubled now !

Among the most interesting of our new Chapters are
two which have taken root — where do you think? — in
Russia! One of them is at Shargovod, in Podolsk, the
other at Savinstzy, in Poltava, and if you will take the
trouble to glance at your atlas you will see that these are
not border towns, but far interior.

Two societies have been established in England
(Burton and Wolverhampton), and one in Nova Scotia.

The readers of St. Nicholas are probably aware that
we have divided all the branches of the Association into
ten groups, called "centuries," for convenience in report-
ing. Reports are expected from the Chapters of the first
century in January of each year; from the second century
in February, and so on, omitting the months of August
and September. Perhaps I can give no better impres-
sion of the progress of our work than by taking a short
glance at the letters which came in for the month July.
They are certainly very encouraging and gratifying.

Iowa Chapters are always "up to the mark." Here is Clarks-
ville, 612, started only last March, that has already more than
doubled its membership, has meetings every Saturday, holds written
examinations once a month in botany, and adds to the usual pro-
gramme of its meetings, music, readings, and recitations. Miss
Bertha Penrose is the president, and Miss Grace Cameron the
secretary.

We turn the telescope to Louisiana. Within half a year the Henry
H. Straight Memorial Cluipter, New Orleans, C, No. 614, has in-
creased its membership from eight to twenty-four. Three hundred
per cent, is very good ! Three of these members are adult, and they
direct the work of the children, each one being encouraged to follow
his special inclination. Among other things talked over and studied
have been the crayfish, dragon-fly, various moths and butterflies,
and sea-fish. Common trees have also been discussed, and speci-
mens of the wood, blossom, flower, and fruit mounted on cardboard.
One meeting was given up entirely to the chicken. Its senses,
"clothes," bones (in a mounted skeleton), history and origin, breeds
and care, eggs and incubators, were some of the topics, varied by two
humorous recitations. After all this the society actually partook of a
chicken-pie (which is certainly a practical illustration of "applied
science " !) and the meeting adjourned after each person present had
while blindfolded drawn a picture of a chicken. Each one paid five
cents for the privilege of drawing, and the one who made the best
picture received the whole collection of drawings as a "chicken
album." So they had much fun and made some money. Miss
Eliza A. Cheyney, the earnest secretary, adds, " We are very glad in-
deed to belong to the Agassiz Association. Any one who doubts
the value of nature studies for children should watch, as I have for six
months, its awakening and quickening power."

Before passing to the next Chapter, we must add parenthetically
that Miss Cheyney has just organized a strong Chapter of more than
twenty members in Hampton Institute, General Armstrong's In-
dian School.

It is surprising how Chapters in the largest cities thrive equally
with those which are supposed to be in nature's more favored haunt,
the country. Chapter 630, New York City, Q, retains its full mem-
bership, and has been steadily adding to its collections.

And now we must take a very long step, — to Redlands, Cali-
fornia. Prince K.rapotkine, the distinguished Russian, calls frequent
attention to the Agassiz Association, in his speeches on " What
Geography Ought to Be " ; and shows that, by such a system of cor-
respondence and exchange as we have, we get more true knowledge
of distant lands than is possible in any other way. The truth of this
remark is illustrated by our regidar reports every month.

In Redlands, Cal., then, Cha/>ter6^g began its existence at the sug-
gestion and under the guidance of Professor J. G. Scott, so long the
distinguished head of the Westfield, Mass., Normal School. Pro-
fessor Scott has recently died, but, wherever he has been, there will
remain inspiring memories of his earnest life. Says the secretary of
Chapter 639, " Professor Scott spent most of the winter with us, and

no one could be with him without becoming interested in natural his-
tory. We were constandy inspired." She adds, " We were also fort-
unate in having another Massachusetts teacher with us last winter,
Professor T. E. N. Eaton, of Worcester. He conducted a botany
class attended by some fifty members." The secretary of this Chap-
ter, at the end of her very interesting report, requests that it be not
published. We did not notice the request until the foregoing extract
was written, and while we do not publish the report, we are unwill-
ing to suppress the merited tributes to Professors Scott and Eaton.

One of our most active Chapters is 652, East Orange, N, J.. C.
under the efficient management of Mary D. Hussey, M. D. Just
entering on its third year with five new members, it reports the
interest greater than ever. It is so large that its work is done in
sections, of which there arc four. The geological section has finished
the first grade of Professor Guttenberg's Agassiz Association course
and has begun a study of local minerals. The botanical section has
been occupied with excursions and work upon the local flora, and
on Arbor Day interested the children of a public school in tree-
planting. Fifty small trees, which had been raised from seedlings,
were presented to the children by the Chapter, and the children
planted them at their own homes with their own hands. The ento-
mological section reported on wasps, honey-bees, bumble-bees, and
silk-worms, presenting specimens of each. It was all original work.
During the remainder of the season the ornithological section took
charge of the meetings, and the following birds were studied from
specimens lent from a private collection: English sparrows, chip-
ping, song, and tree sparrows, snow-birds, hawks, owls, blackbirds,
orioles, robins, wrens, and fly-catchers. Members of this Chapter
attended each meeting of the Agassiz Hill and Dale Club, and the
New Jersey State Assembly of the Agassiz Association. Agassiz's
birthday, May 28, was celebrated in a grove by reading sketches
of his life and scientific work, and Lowell's poem, folio -zed by
refreshments and an exhibition of specimens. A most encouraging-
record of a year's work.

Mr. H. B. Hastings reports that Chapter 663, of Chelsea, Mass.,
has a microscope fund of thirty-six dollars deposited in bank.

We must give an extract from the excellent report of Chapter 694,
of Plainjield, N. J., C. The three secretaries, Mary E. Tracy,
Margaret L. Tracy, and Lilian Erskine, write, in part, as follows:

" Our Chapter has eleven active and five honorary members. This
year botanical and geological sections have been formed in addition
to the one in entomology. We have held thirty-nine meetings besides
making ten excursions into the country, have sent a delegate to both
sessions of the New Jersey Assembly, and at least one member has
attended three meetings of the Hill and Dale Club.

" The botanical section of our chapter was organized in the fall and
consists of eight active members. We have held nine regular meet-
ings. During the first part of the year we studied ferns. In the
winter months we took up the lives of Linnaeus, ihe Jussieu family,
and other well-known botanists of that time. Our work this spring
has been mostly in connection with the study of botany in school.
We have analyzed one hundred and five plants, fifty plants having
been mounted by each member."

We bring this hasty review of the " Seventh Century " to a close
by quoting part of an encouraging report from Mt. Pleasant, Iowa :
" The number of meetings held during the year is forty-five. We
have made quite a number of excursions and some very interesting
discoveries. One of our members, a gentleman from Colorado at-
tending the University, brought us some beautiful specimens of gold
and silver ore."

A noticeable feature of the year's work has been the
rapid extension of the Association among the higher
institutions of learning. We have Chapters in connec-
tion with Johns Hopkins University, Columbia College,
the College of the City of New York, Rutgers, Wellesley,
Wittenburg, Akron, Olivet, and others, to say nothing of
numerous Chapters in normal schools.

At the same time, there are just as many Chapers of the
little ones as ever, and many "family Chapters," where
old and young study and work together. Once more, it
gives me great pleasure to invite all, of whatever age, to
unite with us, either by organizing local Chapters, or as
individual members. To any one who will send his
address will be sent a circular, containing concise direc-
tions for joining the Association — there is no charge for
the enrollment of Chapters — and with the circular will
be sent a wood-engravir.g of Professor Agassiz.

Address, President Agassiz Association,

Pittsfield, Mass.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE OCTOBER NUMBER.

Illustrated Puzzle. Sir Christopher Wren. i. Spike.

Otter. 6. Ships.

Riches.

Sieve. 5.
9. Negro.
Lark. 2. Army.

2. Acorn. 3. Chair. 4.
7. Mower. S. Rower.

Acrostic Riddle, i.
4. Kite.
Numerical Enigma.

The sere leaf, flitting on the blast ;

The hips and haws in every hedge,
Bespeak October 's come ! At last
We stand on Winter's crumbling edge.
A Hollow Square. From 1 to 2, spatter ; 3 to 4,
plea; 5 to 6, alcoran ; 7 to 8, tong; 9 to 10, ternate;
11 to 12, eats; 13 to 14, rangest.
Concealed Half Square, i. Diamond. 2. Imbibe.

3. Abate. 4. Mite. 5. Obe. 6. Ne. 7. D.
Connected Word-squares. Uppersquare: 1. Plan.

2. Line. 3. Anna. 4. Neat. Lower square: 1. Than.
2. Hare. 3. Aril. 4. Nell. From 1 to 3, pintail.

Diamond, i. P. 2. Lea. 3. Worms. 4. Lovable.

5. Peragrate. 6. Ambreic. 7. Slain. 8. Etc. 9. E.
Primal Acrostic. Harvest Home. Cross-words :

1. Hydra. 2. Arion. 3. Remus. 4. Vesta. 5. Epeus.

6. Siren. 7. Titan. 8. Hylas. 9. Orion. 10. Medea.
11. Erato.

Buried Cities. Initials, Cleveland. 1. Canton.

2. Lille. 3. Exeter. 4. Venice. 5. Ems. 6. Lima.

7. Amiens. 8. Nice. 9. Damascus.

Pi. ALICE CARY IN "Autumn."

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips

The days, as through the sunset gate they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips

And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,

And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the faded leaves,

And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East
Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Louise
Ingham Adams — Josephine Sherwood — Paul Reese — Maxie and Jackspar — Maude E. Palmer — Clara B. Or wig —
Pearl F. Stevens — J. B. Swann — Ida C. Thallon — Blanche and Fred — Mamma and Jamie — "The Wise
Five" — Mary L. Gerrish — Odie Oliphant.

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Marion Hughes, 1 —
"The Family," 1 — Gertrude and Cora McCabe, 1 — Pearl B. , 1 — Ida A., 1 — Monica, 2 — Donald C. Barnes, 1- —
Mabel, Alice, and Savage, 1 — Emmons L. Peck, 1 — Bebbie and Matilda, 2 — A. E. H. Meyer, 2 — L. R.
M., 1 — Pauline M. H., Elsie E., and Catherine E. H., 1 — "May and '79," 9 — Annie Louise Clay, 1 — Clara
and Emma, I — Wm. N. Seaver, 5 — May and Lil, I — Lester and Gertrude, I — " Bungalowites," 2 — Mary E.
Colston, 3 — F. P. Whitmore, 1 — L. L. W. and Two Cousins, 1 — M. H. Perrin, I — Lisa D. Blood good, 2 —
H. M. C, 4 — Effie K. Talboys, 6 — A. P. C, S. W., E. M. M. and A. W. Ashhurst, 5 — Bella Myers, 1 — G.
H. Purdy, 2 — Margaret Alice, I — Ida and Mamma, 2 — May Martin, I — Margy P. and Emilie D., 4 — "Karl
the Great," 9 — John W. Frothingham, Jr., 2 — " Kendrick Family," 1 — Percy V. Ranee, 1 — Skipper, 2 — Helen
D.,9 — "Bears," 2 — "Jo and I," 10 — Nellie L. Howes, 8 — Joslyn Z. and Julian C. Smith, 6 — "A Family
Affair," 9 — Kate Guthrie, 5 — Nora Maynard, 4 — Fanny H., 8 — Adrienne Offley Forrester, 5 — J. M. Wright,
I — Pussy and Kitty, 2 — " Frizzleivig," 4 — E. F. M., 3 — Charles Beaufort, 1 — B. F. R., 7 — Dora, 1.

RHOMBOID.

Across : 1. The government of the Turkish empire.
2. Injuries. 3. Pastimes. 4. Fairies. 5. Purport.

Downward: i. In rope. 2. An exclamation. 3. A
fragment. 4. A snare. 5. An ant. 6. Withered. 7. In-
iquity. 8. In like manner. 9. In rope.

PI.

Sit eth emit
Hewn eht miche
Fo eht senasos horlac bnda si ginring tou.

Kysom stribgnesh slifl eht ari,

Rof eht glith swind weeryhever
Scneers lful fo wolfrey bresem wings batou.

Three si stenswese hatt sopperess,

Sa a retden riptang seslebs ;

Threes a fontseed wogl fo yabteu,

Sa hewn Leov si rethawing Duyt ;

Theer rea delisome taht mese
Gawvine stap dan trufeu toni neo ran ramed.

QUADRUPLE ACROSTIC.

All of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When these have been rightly guessed and

placed one below the other, in the order here given, the
primals will spell degrades ; the row next to them will
spell to superintend ; the finals will spell the side oppo-
site to the weather side ; and the row next to them will
spell charges.

Cross-words: i. Pertaining to the back. 2. To mani-
fest. 3. To threaten. 4. A name anciently given to the
underworld. 5. A city in Italy, near Perugia. 6. Wanted.
7. Having the surface set with bristles. F. s. F.

WORD-SQUARE.

I. Gives medicine to. 2. The weight of twelve grains.
3. Substantial. 4. A feminine name. 5. A covered
vehicle for carrying a single person.

CHAKADE.

My first is the most of the whole ;

Indeed, than the whole it 's no less.
My second, no matter how large,

Can never be all, you '11 confess.
By adding a few to the whole

A compound is made that is healthy;
Indeed, your food should be this,

Whether you 're poor or you 're wealthy.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

I AM composed of forty-eight letters, and form two
lines from a poem by Tennyson.

My 36-13-18- 7-32-42 is a poem consisting of four-
teen lines. My 1 1-2 7-40- 17-4 is a story. My 45-21-
4S-19 is an excuse. My 1-23-38-29-9-20-44 is the
national flower of a certain country. My 14-25-5-46-
30 is a kind of grain extensively cultivated. My 35-41
is a preposition. My 2-15-26-33-24-16 is a young cow.
My 6-43-8-37 are small, globular masses of lead. My
3-47-22-31-34-10-28-12-39 is enslaves. F. A. \v.

ILLUSTRATED ACROSTIC'.

W ; ^s--

Each of the six small pictures may be described by a
word of seven letters. When these words are rightly
guessed and placed one below the other, in the order
here given, the third perpendicular row will spell the
surname of an American poet who was born in Novem-
ber, 1797.

RIDDLE.

From night until morning, from morning till night,

My dress varies not, 't is the purest of white ;

But how shall I add what must injure my song, —

That I 'm plump as a dumpling, not round but oblong.

Moreover, my station I take on the head

Of a creature large, strong, and a true quadruped ;

But so gentle and quiet that children may dare

To mount on his back and sit fearlessly there.

I said that my form was not sylph-like nor slender,

No matter for that, since my feelings are tender ;

But a caution I have for the young and the gay,

Shun my company ever, by break of the day,

Or the roses of health that now bloom on your face

Will ere long to the hue of the lily give place.

And now if there 's one who my name has not guessed,

I '11 venture 't is that one who loves me the best.

c. L. M.
DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

WHEN the words represented by stars in the following
sentences have been rightly guessed and placed one below
the other, the diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner

to the lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of the
English poet from whose great work the following quo-
tations are taken :

1. " Then comes the father of the ******* forth,

Wrapt in black glooms."

2. " * ****** ;,-, his palace of cerulean ice,

Here Winter holds his unrejoicing court."

3. " Along the woods, along the ******* fens,

Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm."

4. " The lively ******* drinks thy purest rays,

Collected light, compact."

5. " He saw her charming, but he saw not half

The charms her downcast ******* concealed."

6. " How dead the vegetable ******* lj es ! "

7. " And see where surly Winter passes off,

Far to the north, and calls his ****** * blasts."

DVCIE.
BROKEN WORDS.

Example : Separate a rural worker, and make a vege-
table and an insect. Answer, peas-ant.

1. Separate a kind of pie or tart, and make to revolve
and above. 2. Separate a mercenary, and make wages and
a kind of fish. 3. Separate a preservative against injury,
and make a preposition meaning " against," and to love.
4. Separate a nocturnal bird, and make darkness and a
bird resembling a falcon. 5. Separate a piece of timber
in a ship, and make navigates and onward. 6. Separate
an assistant to a churchwarden, and make margins and a
human being. 7* Separate an unexpected piece of good
fortune, and make idols and conclusion. 8. Separate to
write between, and make to bury and a writer. 9. Sep-
arate pertaining to the evening, and make the e\ening
star and part of a fork. 10. Separate to threaten, and
make a mischievous sprite and the close, n. Separate
remarkable, and make a word that expresses denial and
proficient. 12. Separate to please, and make happy and
a cave.

When the above words are rightly guessed and placed
one below the other, the initials of the first row of words
will spell a day of rejoicing, and the initials of the second
row, a place many people visit in November.

GILBERT FORREST.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

My primals form a surname of Juno at Rome, and my
finals a name for Rhea.

Cross-words (of equal length) : 1. A large artery in
the neck. 2. An Italian poet. 3. A web-footed marine
bird. 4. Reported. 5. Capacity. 6. A lintel over a
door. 7. To fall against, 8. A kind of cloth, originally
brought from China. 9. A musical term meaning rather
slow. F. s. M.

PROVERB PUZZLE.

By taking one word from each of the following prov-
erbs, a quotation from Macbeth, suitable to the season,
may be found :

1. Bitter pills may have blessed effects.

2. A good key is necessary to enter into Paradise.

3. Some have more trouble in the digestion of meat
than in getting the meat itself.

4. Better wait on the cook than the doctor.

5. Praise the sea but keep on land.

6. Temperance, employment, a cheerful spirit, and a
good appetite are the great preservers of health.

7. Little and often fills the purse.

8. Sickness is felt, but health not at all.

9. Lookers-on see more than players.

10. Hear both sides before you decide on your verdict.

"'am pegotty."

THE DE VWNS TRESS, NEW YORK.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
(f.NGRAVED FOR ST. NICHOLAS, FROM A BIST BY J. DEVILE, MADE JUNE T, 1822.)

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

DECEMBER, 1889.

No. 2.

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

By Anne Thackeray Ritchie.

There is a picture we used to look at as chil-
dren in the nursery at home, and which my own
children look at now, as it hangs upon the wall.
It is a water-color sketch, delicately penciled and
tinted, done in India some three-quarters of a
century ago by Chinnery, a well-known artist of
those days, who went to Calcutta and depicted
the people there with charming skill.

This picture represents a family group, — father,
mother, infant child, — a subject which has been
popular with painters ever since they first began
their craft. Long before Raphael's wondrous
art was known, this particular composition was
a favorite with artists and spectators, as I think it
will ever be, from generation to generation, while
mothers continue to clasp their little ones in
their arms. This special group of Thackerays is
almost the only glimpse we have of my father's
earliest childhood, but it gives a vivid passing
impression of his first home, which lasted for so
short a time. My long, lean, young grandfather
sits at such ease as people allowed themselves
in those classic days, propped in a stiff chair, in
tight white ducks and pumps, and with a kind,
grave face. He was Mr. Richmond Thackeray,
of the Bengal Civil Service, the then revenue

collector of the districts called il the twenty-four
Perganas." My grandmother, a beautiful young
woman of some two and twenty summers, stands,
draped in white, with a certain nymph-like aspect,
and beside her, perched upon half a dozen big
piled books, with his arms round his mother's neck,
is her little son, William Makepeace Thackeray,
a round-eyed boy of three years old, dressed in a
white muslin frock. He has curly, dark hair, an
innocent face, and a very sweet look and smile.
This look was almost the same indeed after a life-
time ; neither long years of work and trouble, nor
pain, nor chill winters of anxiety ever dimmed
its clear simplicity, though his spectacles may
have sometimes come between his eyes and
those who did not know him very well.

He used to take his spectacles off when he
looked at this old water-color. " It is a pretty
drawing," he used to say ; but if his father, in
the picture, could have risen from the chair
he would have been about nine feet high, ac-
cording to the length of the legs there depicted.
My own father used to tell us he could just re-
member our grandfather, a very tall, thin man,
rising out of a bath. He could also remember
the crocodiles floating on the Ganges, and that
was almost all he ever described of India, though
in his later writings there are many allusions to

IOO

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

A FAMILY GROIP OF THACKERAYS — MR. AND MRS. RICHMOND THACKERAY, AND THEIR SON. LITTLE WILLIAM
MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. (FROM A WATER-COLOR DRAWING BY GEORGE CHINNERY.)

East Indian life. In "The Tremendous Ad- the peaceful home in India was broken up for-
ventures of Major Gahagan," for instance, there ever. The poor young collector of the twenty-
is enough meaning and intention in the names four Perganas died of a fever on board a ship,
and Hindustanee to show that he still retained where he had been carried from the shore for
something of his early impressions. fresher air ; this was about 1816, when my father
A year after the sketch in question was painted, was five years old.

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

IOI

Richmond Thackeray was himself little over
thirty when he died. His young widow re-
mained in India with her mother, and married
a second time. Two years after her first hus-
band's death, her little son came back to Eng-
land with a cousin of the same age, both return-
ing under the care of an Indian civilian, Mr.
James McNabb, who had promised to befriend
the children on the journey home, and of whose
kindness we were often told in our childhood.

In the Roundabout Paper, on " Letts's Diary,"
my father mentions this very coming home. He
is speaking of this cousin, Sir Richmond Shake-
spear, who had been his little playmate and
friend from the time of their birth. " In one of
the stories by the present writer," he says, "a
man is described tottering up the steps of the
Ghaut, having just parted with his child whom
he is dispatching to England from India. I
wrote this, remembering in long, long distant
days such a Ghaut, or river-stair, at Calcutta;
and a day when down those steps, to a boat
which was in waiting, came two children whose
mothers remained on the shore. One of these
ladies was never to see her boy more." (So he
says speaking of his aunt Mrs. Shakespear.)

My grandmother's was a happier fate, and
she returned to make a home for her son, and to
see him grow up and prosper and set his mark
upon his time.

II.

Before going any further the writer must
explain how it has come about that these few
papers and drawings are now for the first time
given to the public.

A little more than a year ago an American
gentleman came to see us at Southmead, where
we were then living, with a letter of introduc-
tion from a friend, and at his request I showed
him some letters and drawings, and the picture
of my father which I have been describing, and
some of my father's MSS., in all of which
he took the same warm and responsive interest
which has so often been shown by the American
as well as the English readers of " Vanity Fair "
and " Pendennis." Among the letters were two
or three very early epistles I had lately found ;
written at the time of my father's first coming
home to England, when all our present race of

elders, statesmen, poets, and philosophers were
also little boys — and girls, shall we say? — play-
ing in their nurseries, spinning their hoops and
tops, peacefully awaiting the coming whirligigs
of life. I had found the letters by chance one
day, in a packet which had been preserved by
my grandmother for half a century. It had then
lain undisturbed for nearly twenty years after her
death, for so much time had passed since they
were first written by the little boy in the quiet
Hampshire village to his mother in India.

I showed these childish letters, among other
things, to my American visitor, as I have said,
and, not long afterward, he wrote to me con-
veying the request of the Editor of St. Nicho-
las, that I would let the magazine have them
for the benefit of its young readers. I had
some hesitation at first in complying with the
request, — for it is difficult to go against a life-
long habit, and I have always felt bound by
my father's objections. After a time I spoke to
my old friend Mr. George Smith, to whom my
father's copyrights belong. He willingly con-
sented and saw no real hindrance to the publi-
cation. And, as I looked again at the child's
writing, I felt that even the most fastidious could
not find any breach of confidence in printing the
simple lines ; and, apart from all other reasons,
it would be a pleasure to us and to our own chil-
dren to see them reproduced. I was sure, too,
that many American boys and girls and their
elders would be interested to see how the writer
of "Vanity Fair" began his life-long work.

And so it happened that one summer's day
this year a little cart drew up at our garden
gate, a photographer and a camera were landed
on the doorstep, the camera was set up in a
corner of the garden, the sun came out from be-
hind a cloud, and in an hour or two the letters
were copied, the pictures and the bust were
reproduced, the picture went back to its nail,
and the letters to their drawers, and the cart
rumbled off with the negatives, of which the
proofs have now reached me from America.

III.

"When I first saw England," my father writes
in his lecture upon George III., "she was in
mourning for the young Princess Charlotte, the

102

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY,

[Dec.

hope of the Empire. I came from India as a
child, and our ship touched at an island on the
way home, where my black servant took me a
long walk over rocks and hills until we reached
a garden where we saw a man walking. ' That
is he,' said the black man, 'that is Bonaparte;
he eats three sheep every day and all the little
children he can lay hands on!"'

The little traveler must have been about six
years old when he landed in England. He was
sent to Fareham, in Hampshire, to the care of
his mother's aunt and grandmother, where she
had also lived as a child in the same quiet old
house. "Trix's house" it was called in those
days, and still may be for all I know. It stood
in Fareham High street, with pretty, old-fash-
ioned airs and graces, and a high sloping roof
and narrow porch. The low front windows
looked across a flower garden into the village
roadway, the back windows opened into a pleas-
ant fruit garden sloping to the river. When I
myself the other day read in " Praeterita " Rus-
kin's exquisite description of the fruit-bearing
trees and bushes in his own childish " Garden of
Eden," straightway came to my mind a remem-
brance, a vision, of the gooseberry and currant
bushes at our Aunt Becher's, and of my little
curly-haired sister sitting on the ground and
filling her pinafore with fruit. We in turn,
children of a fourth generation, were brought
for a time to the old house. I can see it all as
plain before me as if I was eight years old once
more ; and I can remember hearing my grand-
mother say that, according to her own remem-
brance, nothing was changed from the time
when she too had returned thither from India
as a fatherless child to dwell in the quiet vil-
lage for a decade of years, until she went back
to India again at sixteen, dressed for the jour-
ney in a green cloth riding-habit — so she used
to tell us — to be married, and to be a mother,
and widowed, and married again before another
decade had gone by. She never had any other
child than my father.

My sister and I, coming so long after, suc-
ceeded to all her old traditions : to the oak
stools standing in the window; to the little
white bed in the upper room ; to the garden
leading to the river-bank. We made cowslip
balls in the meadows (how often we had heard

of them before we came to Fareham !). All our
grandmother's stories came to life for us. We
too had pattens to wear when it rained, we too
had "willow" plates of our own, and cherry-pie
on Sundays, and dry bread on week days ; we
too were forbidden butter by our old great-
great-aunt as a pernicious luxury for children.
We were afraid of the old aunt, but very fond
of her, for she used to give us half-sovereigns,
and send us charming letters in her beautiful
handwriting. The little old house was as pleas-
ant within as without ; big blue china pots stood
in the corners of the sitting-rooms and of the
carved staircase with its low steps. In the low-
pitched front parlor hung the pictures (a Sir
Joshua Reynolds among them) of generations
not so far removed in my childish days as they
are at present, being now buried away by suc-
ceeding lives — "oil sous son pere on retrouve
encore son pere comme 1'onde sous Fonde dans
une mer sans fond."

My father's great-grandmother, Mrs. Becher,
had sat to Sir Joshua in her youth — she died
in 1825 at eightv-nine years of age. Her name,
which the writer has inherited, was Anne Hays-
ham before she married, and Ave have a copy
of the Sir Joshua portrait, representing a stately
dame in the flowing draperies of the period.
She lived in the old house at Fareham, after
her husband's death ; she was the mother of
many daughters and tempestuous sons. The
sterner rule of those Spartan times did not al-
ways quell the wild spirits of their rising gen-
erations. My grandmother has often told me
that Mrs. Becher never called her eldest daugh-
ter anything but " Miss Becher " ; her little
granddaughter was " Miss Nancy." She used
to come and go leaning on a beautiful tortoise-
shell-headed cane. I have played with the
cane, though its owner died long before I was
born ; as for the great-aunt, I remember her
perfectly well, a little old lady in a flaxen front
with apple cheeks and a blue shawl, holding
out her welcoming arms to the third generation
of her brother John's descendants. When she
died, she left her brother's picture out of the
parlor to my grandmother, his only surviving
daughter, and now in turn it hangs with its red
coat upon our parlor wall. We are all very fond
of our great-grandfather, with his nice coat and

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

I03

lace ruffles. He is, in the portrait, a young man
of some twenty-five years of age, with an oddly
familiar face, impulsive, inquisitive, — so he
strikes me at least. His name was John
Harman Becher, and he too went out to India
and did good work there, and died young, as
did so many others — in those adventurous
days. He was born in April, 1764. and died
about 1800.

Fareham itself, with its tall church spire and
its peal of Sunday bells across the cowslip mead-
ows, was a Miss-Austen-like village, peopled by
retired naval officers and spirited old ladies who
played whist every night of their lives and kept
up the traditions of England, not without some
asperity, as I well remember. Among other
things which my grandmother has often de-
scribed to us was the disastrous news of Nelson's
death, coming to them all, in that same little
parlor where, a few years after, little William
Makepeace Thackeray sat, laboriously writing
to his mother in India.

This letter, the earliest we have, is addressed to
" Mrs. R. Thackeray, care of Messrs. Palmer's,
per P. of Orange, Calcutta." It took six months
to reach its journey's end.

My Dear Mama I hope you are quite well. I have
given my dear Grandmama a kiss my Aunt Ritchie is
very good to me I like Chiswick there are so many
good Boys to play with. St. James's Park is a very fine
place. St. Pauls Church too I like very much it is a
finer place than I expected. I hope Captain Smyth is
well give my love to him and teli him he must bring you
home to your affectionate little son

William Thackeray.

" William got so tired of his pen he could not
write longer with it," says his great-aunt in a
postscript to this Indian letter, " so he hopes you
will be able to read his pencil . . . He drew
me your house in Calcutta [she continues], not
omitting his monkey looking out of the window
and black Betty at the top drying the towels,
and he told us of the number you collected on
his birthday in that large room he pointed out
to us ! " There are also a few words from an
uncle written under the seal. " My dear Sister
Anne, I have seen my dear little nephew and
am delighted with him."

Besides all these postscripts there is a faint
pencil sketch representing, as I imagine, Captain

Carmichael-Smyth on horseback. That gentle-
man was then just engaged to my grandmother,
and was ever after the kindest of friends and
parents to my father and to all of us.

We have an interesting book compiled by a
member of the family for private circulation, in
which there is an account of my father as a
child. " His habit of observation began very
early," says Mrs. Bayne in this volume. " His
mother told me that once when only three or
four years old, and while sitting on her knee at
the evening hour, she observed him gazing up-
ward and lost in admiration. ' Ecco,' he ex-
claimed, pointing to the evening star, which
was shining like a diamond over the crescent
moon. This struck her the more as she had
herself noticed the same beautiful combination
on the night of his birth. ' Ecco ' was probably
decco, which is Hindustanee for ' look ! ' I
have often heard that when he first came to
London and was driving through the city he
called out, ' That is St. Paul's ! ' He had rec-
ognized it from a picture. He was with his
father's sister, Mrs. Ritchie, at the time, and
she was alarmed by noticing that his uncle's
hat, which he had put on in play, quite fitted
him. She took him to Sir Charles Clarke, the
great physician of the day, who examined him,
and said, ' Don't be afraid ; he has a large head,
but there is a great deal in it.' "

The second of these early letters is addressed
to Mrs. Carmichael-Smyth, Agra. It is written
in a painstaking copperplate hand, but it is so
evidently under superintendence that it is of
much less interest than the others. He was
then barely seven years old.

April 24, 181S.
My Dear Mama: I received your kind letter which

Mrs. was so good as to read to me as I am not

able to read your letters yet but hope I shall soon. I
have been twice with George and Richmond to dine with
Mr. Shakespear he was very kind and gave me a great
many pretty books to read and promised I should go
every time George and Richmond went. I wrote a long
letter in February and sent it to Aunt Becher to send to
you. I have learnt Geography a long time, and have
begun latin and cyphering which I like very much, pray
give my love to Papa, I remain dear Mama yr dutiful son

W. Thackeray.

Looking over some of my grandmother's
early letters I find more than one mention of

io4

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

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FAC-SIMILE np A PORTION OF AN EARLY LETTER. (SEE PRECEDING PAGE)

my father. "I have had a delightful letter
from my man." the mother writes from India,
and then quoting from her own home corre-
spondence she continues : " The day Charles
[Col. Carmichael-Smyth] arrived, he [the boy]
was in high spirits all day, but when he went
to bed he could restrain no longer and burst
into tears. The servant asked him why he
cried. He said, ' I can't help it, to see one who
has so lately seen my dear mother and to see
her picture and the dear purse she has made
for me ! ' "

IV.

My father never spoke with any pleasure
of his early school-days. As we drove to Rich-
mond with him sometimes, he used to show
us the corner of the lane at Chiswick which
led to the school where all the "good boys"
were learning their lessons. To this corner,
soon after he entered school as a very little
fellow, he ran away, and then was so fright-
ened by the sight of the Hammersmith High
Road that he ran back again, and no one was

i88 9 .) THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY. IO5

the wiser. Before he was sent to Chiswick, young lives so miserable that I remember kneel-

I believe he stayed, for some months only, ing by my little bed of a night, and saying, Pray

at a school in Hampshire, where his cousins God I may dream of my mother."

also were pupils. " I can remember George The next letter was written from Fareham :

coming and flinging himself down upon my ..„ .,, „,.,„ ,, „ T , ,

00 1 J My dearest of all dear Mamas : I have much

bed the first night," he wrote long after to his p i easure in wr iti ng to you again from Fareham to tell how

cousin, Mrs. Irvine, sister of George and Rich- happy I am. I went to Roche Court to see Mr. and Mrs.

mond Shakespear. This was that school of Thresher. I saw a birds nest with young ones in it, in

which he speaks in the Roundabout Paper, a beautiful honeysuccle bush and a robbing in another

,, . , . r , . , .... . . place. Tins has been Neptune day with me I call it so

" A school 01 which our deluded parents had ; T ., _ '., „ T ,,

1 becase i go into the water & am like Neptune. Your

heard a favorable report, but which was gov- oId aqu:iin tances are very kind to me and give me a
emed by a horrible little tyrant who made our great many cakes and great many kisses but I do not let

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THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

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Charles Becher kiss me I only take those from the ladies —
I don't have many from Grandmama. Miss English gives
her very kind love to you and begs you will soon come
home. Pray give my kindest love to Pappa. Aunt Becher
bought me a Caliduscope it is a very nice one I have
spent a very pleasant day at Catesfield. Miss O'Bryen
gave me a very pretty jest book I should like you to have
such another pretty house as Mrs. O'Bryen's, there is such
a beautiful garden. I am grown a great boy I am three feet
eleven inches and a quarter high I have got a nice boat,
I learn some poems which you was very fond of such as
the Ode on Music &c. I shall go on Monday to Chiswick
to see my Aunt Turner and hear the boys speak. I in-

tend to be one of those heroes in time, I am very glad I
am not to go to Mr. Arthur's. I have lost my cough
and am quite well, strong, saucy, and hearty; and can
eat Granmama's goosberry pyes famously after which I
drink yours & my Papas good health & a speedy return.
believe me my dear Mama your dutiful son

W. Thackeray.

My father must have been a sensitive little
boy, quick to feel, not over strong, though well
grown. He was always very short-sighted, and
this in his school-days was a great trouble to

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

io:

him, for he could not join in the games with
any comfort or pleasure, nor even see the balls
which he was set to stop at cricket. In those
days schools were not what they are now ; they
were rough and ready places. He used to de-
scribe dreadful arrangements of zinc, with oily
streaks of soap floating on the black waters,
which always sickened him, and which were all
the materials that the little boys were allowed

a perfect recollection of me ; he could not speak,
but kissed me and looked at me again and again.
I could almost have said, ' Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes
have seen thy salvation.' He is the living image
of his father, and God in heaven send he may
resemble him in all but his too short life. He
is tall, stout, and sturdy, his eyes are become
darker, but there is still the same dear expres-

FAC-S1MILE OF A DRAWING MADE BY THACKERAY IN HIS BOYHOOD.

for their morning's ablutions. He suffered in
health as well as in spirits, and he was often
laid up. And it seems to be after one of these
passing illnesses that the letter reproduced in
fac-simile on pages 105 and 106 was written
from Fareham, where he must have been sent
to recover. But his troubles were almost at
an end, for his mother was even then on her
way home and he had no need to dream of her
dear presence any more.

This is her account of the meeting : " He was
not at Chatham when we arrived, but Mr.
Langslow brought him from Chiswick the next
morning, for Mrs. Turner would not part with
him till we came, that I might see him in full
bloom ; and truly he is so, dear soul. He had

sion. He remembers you all perfectly. Aunt
Maria, I think, is his favorite still. The moment
he saw the gold knife, he said, ' Oh, my grand-
mamma gave me this, and I poked Dash with
it.' His drawing is wonderful."

After drawing Captain Smyth, the house in
Calcutta, and Betty hanging out the clothes, as
he did on his first arrival, the little bov went on
to draw everything else that struck his fancy.
He liked to draw, not so much the things he
saw as the things he thought about: knights
with heraldic shields, soldiers, brigands, drag-
ons, and demons; his school-books were all orna-

io8

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

FAC-SIMILE OF A DRAWliNG MADE BY THACKERAY IN HIS BOYHOOD.

merited with funny fanciful designs, his papers
were covered with them. When he was still
quite a little fellow, he used to manufacture small
postilions out of wafers, with the top-boots in
ink and red coats neatly stuck on. As he got
older, he took to a flourishing style, with split
pens for his instruments, sketching gentlemen
with magnificent wreaths of hair and flaps to
their coats, ladies with wonderful eyes and lips,
in style all curly and flourishing ; but these ex-
periments were in later years, after his mother's
return from India.

I gladly acceded to the request of the Editor
of St. Nicholas, who asked me to forward
with the rest of the papers two or three speci-
mens of my father's childish drawings. They
are taken at hazard from those in our posses-
sion. Here* is one of the drawings which by
the writing underneath should belong to these
very early days when the young designer was
but nine or ten years old. We must not fail
to observe that the brave captain, kneeling for
mercy, is poking out his companion's eye with
his sword, while the gallant warrior in a cocked
hat, standing up, is delivering two heavy purses
to the constable (or highwayman ? ) with his club.

* See pa

Here are one or two more quotations from
the mother's letters which run on about so
many unknown things and people, and then
here and there comes a little phrase or sen-
tence belonging to one's own present world and
dearest interests :

" August, 182 1.

" My Billy-Man is quite well. I must tres-
pass and give him a day or two of holidays.
You would laugh to hear what a grammarian
he is. We were talking about odd characters,
some one was mentioned, I forget who. Billy
said, ' Undoubtedly he is a Noun — Substantive.'
' Why, my dear ? ' ' Because he stands by him-
self.'"

Here is the history of a relapse :

" My poor Billy-Boy was getting better of his
cough, and he was going into school when
Henry unfortunately went to see him and gave
him half-a-crown, with which my little Gentle-
man must buy a lump of cheese, which of all
tilings you know was the very worst, and brought
back the enemv."

Then comes an account by the Mamma of
the school of which the little scholar's impres-
sions were so different.

ge 107.

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

IO9

" I don't think there could be a better school
for young boys. My William is now 6th in the
school, though out of the 26 there are only four
that are not older than himself. He promises
to fag hard till Midsummer that he may obtain
a medal, and after that I think of placing him
at the Charter House. . . .

" He tells me he has seen the Prince Regent's
Yacht in Southampton Water and the bed in
which his Royal Highness breathes his royal
snore."

Again —

" Billy-Man says, ' give my love to them all,
/ wish they would come over.' Here is the

FAC-SIMILES OF DRAWINGS BV THACKERAY WHEN
A BOY. BENEATH THE UPPER SCENE THE
YOUNG ARTIST WROTE IN PENCIL: "HOW
SHOULD YOU LIKE TO BE SERVED SO ? "

little figure he has done in a few
minutes of Captain Bobadil ; it was
a thick pencil and he could not
make a good outline. He painted
a little theater for young Forrest, or
rather a scene with sides entirely
from his own imagination, which
Mrs. Forrest says was capital.

" Our time is limited to the 19th,
when I must be at Chiswick to hear
my little hero hold forth — I don't know how I
shall go through with it. They have not selected
an interesting speech — Hannibal's address to
his soldiers — which you must all read and
fancy me and Billy-Boy — but you can't fancy
such a great fellow."

Can the picture on page 108 be Captain Bob-
adil, or one of the scenes for the theater ? On
this page is a thrilling incident from the Spanish
Inquisition carefully painted and finished up by
the little artist.

VI.

The letter which follows is the last of the
early letters, and is dated in 1822, when its

I IO

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

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writer was eleven years old. His stepfather
had been appointed Governor of Addiscombe,
and his own life at Grey-Friars had begun.

Charter House, Jan. 20, 1822.
My dear Mother :

I am now going to begin bothering you
that letter I wrote to Butler was only a bit of a preface I
dare say you are surprised to see me use a whole sheet
of paper but I have laid in a stock for the quarter pens

ink and all I hope you will write to me soon at least
oftener than you did last quarter & tell me all about
Addiscombe & the Gentlemen Cadets and tell me if Papa
has got a hat that will fit him. My hands are so cold
that I can hardly write. I have made a vow not spend
that five shilling piece you gave me till I get into the
Sih form which I mean to ask for tomorrow. The holi-
days begin on the 23rd of April but it wants 13 weeks
to them it will be your time to ask me out in three
weeks two more Saturdays must pafs and then it will be
the time for me to go out. Is Butler gone to Addis-

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY. I I I

combe with you .•' We have got a new master his name travel Oil the Stage-coach when the long-ex-
is Dickin— Dickins or Dickinson. Give my love to p ectee J holidays came round at last*

Papa and I remain Yours truly r,,, r . • f . i , re

r , I7 ' „ I he frontispiece ot the present number ot St.

W. M. Thackeray. l L

... . . . . Nicholas is engraved from the photograph of

Write again as quick as you can. ° i

a bust of little William Makepeace Thackeray

Eventually, Major and Mrs. Carmichael- which was made in the same year as that to

Smyth settled at Fairoaks, near Ottery St. which this last letter belongs. A foreigner called

Mary, whither the little schoolboy used to Devile, or Delile, came over with an ingenious

* One of the very earliest of my memories is that of an old servant, a toothless " old John," in knee-breeches,
who had followed the family fortunes from Devonshire to Coram street, where my father and mother lived in
London. His picture is to be seen in Pendennis, with a coal-scuttle.

THACKERAY. FROM THE LA:

process for taking people's portraits by casts
which he afterwards worked up and put to-
gether, and, thanks to his skill, we possess this
really admirable portrait of the boy as he was
on the ist of June, 1822, which is the date upon
the pedestal. The letter, it will be seen, is dated
in January of 1822.

I am glad to be able to add to these glimpses
and mementos of his early life a picture that
represents my father as I remember him best.
The frontispiece shows him as a boy ; the en-

THE LONDON STEREOSCOPIC COMPANY.)

graving on this page is from the last photograph
ever taken of him. All a lifetime lies between
the two portraits, all its sorrows and successes,
its work and its endurance. No words of mine
are needed to point out the story. As a boy, as
a man, my father held to the truth as he felt it
to be, to the duties and courageous things of
life. He bore much trouble with a brave, cheer-
ful heart, and he made all who belonged to him
happy by his generous trust in them, and his
unchanging tenderness and affection.

VERSES.

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

A CHRISTMAS LETTER.

All the folks that live out here,
Wish you Merry Christmas, dear !
Funny, furry little hares,
After dark, when no one cares,
■Come to dance upon the snow,
Glad it 's Christmas time, you know.

And the little chickadees, —
You would think their feet would freeze,-
They sit chirping, gay enough,
With their feathers in a fluff,
" Merry Christmas, when it comes,
Gives us all a lot of crumbs ! "

And your dear old friend, the crow,
He and all his brothers go
Teetering across the snow,
Two-and- twenty in a row ;
Every crow with one keen eye
For the changes in the sky,
And another for the ground
And whatever 's to be found.
Oh ! the crows look sly and queer
Just about this time of year !
If they 'd only tell in sleep
All the secrets that they keep !
Don't you s'pose they know it 's right
To hang a stocking up at night ?
Don't you s'pose they know this minute
Everything there will be in it ?

People used to half-believe

Cows could talk on Christmas eve,

Standing patient in the stall,

When the night began to fall ;

That they talked of that strange sight

In a stable Christmas night.

Don't you wonder if they do ?

Don't you wish that it was true ?

Stars at Christmas, don't you think,

Have a sort of knowing wink ?

And the flowers underground

Asleep when Christmas comes around, —

Don't you think it really seems

As if they must have Christmas dreams ?

Happy dreams be yours, my dear,
Christmas night, and all the year !

THE LAST CRICKET.

Trill, trill, trill,

Sweet and shrill,
From the dark side of a stone ;

Summer is flown away,

Clover is made into hay,
Autumn nights are chill ;

Trill away, little Cricket !
Out in the dark alone.

Trill, trill, trill,

The tree-tops are still,

Never a katydid about
And the firefly's torches are burned out.

Trill away, little Cricket !
The stars listen, no doubt.

Trill! trill! trill!

A summer tune
Makes not November June.

Everything has an end,

And so has thy song, little friend !
Tweak ! the frost nips — thou art still !

Vol.. XVII.— 14.

THE WHITE AND THE RED

by
ALICE MAUDE EWELL

^Q^

[Dame Gillian Fenn tells the tale to her chil-
dren, and others of her household, — all seated
round a blazing fire, — on Christmas eve, of the
Year of Grace 1652, in olden-time Virginia] :

Well, well ! all 's ready for the morrow, thank
patience ! with making and baking, roasting
and toasting, fairly done. And what will ye be
having to-night, pray ? That same old tale of
Indian Simon that I did tell you once afore ?
Welladay ! if it pleased you so rarely at first
time o' hearing, I '11 e'en tell 't again. 'T is no
such smooth-tripping a merry-go-round as some
folk like best this season, nor hath it merry end-
ing, neither — for all some lives were saved by
the turn o't ; but 't is only fair, I 'm thinking,
that you young ones should be made acquaint
with what your forebears did suffer and adventure
a-planting this New World. Ye may set your-
selves up to do great things, mayhap, i' the days
to come — but if e'er ye 've a mind to go brag-
ging, why, look ye first behind. 'T will do you
no harm, I warrant. Folk should set proper
store by homes so hard-won from the wilder-
ness, nor grudge honest tilling o' the ground
that was so well watered with fathers' blood.
Aye, aye ; 't is peace and good will, this Christ-
mas eve, an' good cheer a plenty, to boot; but
as for the winning o't all, that was no such peace-
ful a matter, as ye may reckon. Howsoever,
bless God ! we need fear no Indian screechery
breaking in, like on that time, to spoil talk to-

night. There 's naught worse than the wind
outside, or maybe a wolf or two, now and again.
Stir ye the coals and pile on the logs, — Dickon,
Tacky. We '11 tell it all once more — and he
shall have most cakes an' beer at the end, with
nuts to crack no less, that proveth the keenest
listener.

— Now, 't was after a right strange manner of
happening that the lad Simon Peter did first
come to dwell amongst us; which same (for
that ye may the better understand mine own
proper tale i' the telling) I will now in brief
relate the ins and outs of. Truly, his descent
was from none too good nor too happy a stock,
as nobody might deny. 'T was of that heady
and high-stomached tribe called Pianketank,
who rose up to their own undoing 'gainst the
old cruel king, Powhatan, not long afore the
coming of the English into Virginia. So that
tribe did he swiftly and most furiously fall upon
and slay to the last man (as he then purposed
and believed), with all the rest of his several
under-tribes helping him thereto in vengeance.
And when they were all so bloodily done to
death, he did cause to be cut off and stringed on
a string, all a-row, the ears of men, women, and
children — and there were they hanged up be-
twixt two trees in front of his palace door. A
brave sweet sight, i' faith, and a most pleasant for
his royal eyes to gaze on, and also a signal warn-
ing 'gainst such like rebellious offense. There
were they seen by no less than Captain John
Smith himself, with others of his company, — to

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

115

their great mislike and amazement, — as was
aftertime writ down by him in his " True Rela-
tion " of Virginia matters, and may to this day
be read. Howsoever, it happened that, despite
this murtherous and savage disposal, there
remained yet a very little remnant of the tribe
Pianketank, being scarce one score souls in all,
who got them away, at the first alarm, in swift
flight from the slayers and hid in the dark wil-
derness till after King Powhatan, in passage of
years, died and was buried. E'en then, 't was
said, they durst hardly venture out save in a
very secret way. But seeing that none molested
them, and also that their persecutors' minds had
changed with vastly changing times all o'er the
land, they came at last boldly forth as any, and
settled them upon the woody waste that even
to this day lieth uncleared, northward of the
road to James City. So there they builded their
wigwams on a hillock not far from the way, and
no man hindered or anywise denied them need-
ful range for hunting, fishing, and such like get-
ting of wherewithal to live. As for the white
men thereabout, they were the rather overkind,
I do reckon, as, to such marked unfortunates,
one naturally disposeth. Yet, as folk soon 'gan
to say, 't was like enough that fault o' the former
quarrel with Prince Powhatan was not all on
one side. " What 's bred i' the bone will out i'
the flesh," as the old saw runneth, and so it came
to pass full soon with these poor down-trod and
distrest Pianketanks. 'T was not alone an ell
they 'd be content with, being given an inch, but
a thousand miles, more like. In greedy tricks,
malice, pride, laziness, and fierce-mouthed brags,
they, waxing ever more insolent, grew daily worse
and worse — and as for Jack o' the Feather, he
was of them all the most past Christian bearing.
Now his sure-enough Indian name was not
Jack, but Nemattanow ; only the English called
him Jack o' the Feather, because of his saucy
tongue, an' because of his being always so finely
rigged up with feathers in the wild fashion of
his sort. For tho' 't was naught uncommon to
see those foolish heathen creatures so bedeckt
and set off with plumage of birds by them
caught or killed, yet never another one was seen
to match this Jack in such outlandish bravery
and ornamentation. One day 't would be an
eagle's plume, mayhap, the next a turkey-wing

— or goodness knoweth what new thing or
t' other ! There be wiser folk than he in this
world that think fine feathers make fine birds,
but this same Jack was an ill'bird, I do reckon,
for all his royal blood. He was next of kin to
the chieftain, or king, as they called him (after
their high and mighty way), who was killed in
the former massacre, that time — so being by
blood, as in natural humor, the leader and ruler
o' his crew, in mischief as in all else. A king
well-nigh without subjects, good sooth ! and in
right make-a-shift case ; yet the lacking in pomp
was out-doubled in pride, I trow, and so his fall
came round.

Now, it did so chance one day in a busy time
of harvest, that Master Thomas Godkyn, his
nighest neighbor, would have Jack o' the
Feather go an errand for him to Jamestown
for one bushel of corn in payment thereof. It
was easy earning of good bread, but my royal
red gentleman having no mind for such honest
humble service, not he, and giving a short and
saucy back-answer, No, with some brag of his
kingly blood, moreover, — why, then, Master
Godkyn, mightily put about and vext by the
denial, did burst out scornfully a-laughing at
that, saying, " I pray your High Majesty's
pardon. I' faith, I did forget your High Majes-
tical state," quoth he, " O fine king o' beggars
in a palace o' poles ! " Whereupon he laughed
again, " Ho, ho! " a-turning on his heel; but
as for Jack o' the Feather, he looked a most
black an' devilish look, as who would fain
strike that other dead with 's tomahawk for very
rage, and (crying out fiercely in his Indian
speech) said, " Paleface fool ! Thou laughest
loud to-day, but I will laugh louder to-morrow."

So then Master Godkyn, making that out
shrewdly to be threat of evil, did bethink him
that he would look keenly to any such risk.
But malice hath many ways to creep as well as
run, — an' who may guard him 'gainst the cruel
cunning of that murtherous red people ? 'T was
the very next mom, just afore day-breaking, that
he, being waked up from sleep by a most fear-
some bellowing and groaning, as of some great
brute-beast in death pain, went out and found —
lo and behold! — his brave bull, that had cost
a pretty price in England, besides the fetching
of it hither, there was it, a-lying i' the meadow,

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

ham-stringed, and in such a case as might not
be anywise holpen save with a bullet through
the heart for pity's sake.

Now, small need was there for guessing (as
everybody said) whose wicked deviltry this
might be. And some of the neighboring white
people would be for shooting Jack o' the Feather
with the same gun wherewith they had dis-
patched the bull. " Kill him ! kill him ! " cried
these hot-blooded ones, and had well-nigh set
off furiously so to do, without judge or trial,
only my father — Master Barrow — said nay to
that. " We will not so bring blood-guiltiness
on us, neighbors," saith he, " for all that such
mischief may no longer lodge amongst us. We
will but give him fair warning to quit these parts
straightway, on pain o' death. Then, if he do
prove contrary and resist, his blood be on his
head." So, that being agreed on, the warning
was given accordingly ; and as for that villain,
though he did bitterly deny the bloody fact, he
durst not tarry long to prove him innocent, in
sooth, for by next daybreak he was clean gone,
with all his fellows and belongings (as was first
supposed), nobody knew which way or whither.

'T was on the even of that same day that my
father, a-passing nigh those wigwams, so left
standing lonesome and empty, did hear a very
little wailing voice right piteously crying. So
he stopped and listened, and being distrest
thereby (for the sound of it, as I have heard
him say a-many a time, would touch heart of
stone) he went to find what that might be.
And there, lo ! what doth he come across, weep-
ing 'mongst the cold ashes all frighted and alone,
but Jack o' the Feather's own child, — and a
mere baby lad, at that, — by those most wicked
creatures left behind to perish, with neither fire
nor victual.

Now, whether he had hid himself away (after
the roguish trickery of such very little ones) and
so could not be found at time of their hasty set-
ting off, or whether he was so left a-purpose in
cold blood from the notion of their flight being by
him hampered, Heaven knoweth, not I ! Yet
there was he, to a certainty, and piteously fam-
ished withal ; and so my father, being a feeling-
hearted man, did fetch him home that night to
our house. For mine own self, I was but a lit-
tle babe in arms that time, but afterward heard

tell enough concerning the surprise and wonder-
ment of it — and the vexedness of my poor
mother at this turn. Truly she was ever set
'gainst this outside stranger, e'en from the first,
but as for Dickon and Francis, they were right
well joyed with a new playfellow. Mayhap about
three year old did he seem, and nigh Francis in
tallness, though not so bigly set. Words had
he, a plenty, when that his tears were dried an'
he fairly warmed and fed, but all in the barbar-
ous Indian tongue, such as not even my father
might make head or tail of, save only here and
there. And being asked his name, as was made
shift to do, he cried out loud and proudly, a-
clapping his two hands together, " Totapota-
moi ! Totapotamoi ! Totapotamoi ! " Whereat
our lads laughed, for the right strange, curious
sound thereof. And my mother, she cried,
" Lord ha' mercy upon the wild heathen crea-
ture! " But my father said, right soberly, " 'T is
good enow for a savage, an' hath a pretty ring
i' the sound on 't — an' that 's truth. Notwith-
standing," saith he on, " 't is no proper title for
any decent tame creature in Christian house-
hold." So he named him Simon Peter from
that hour — by which name he was soon after
brought to christening ; and that did we ever
call him.

And thus it did hap that he first came to
dwell amongst us.

Now, as I have afore said, my mother was
ever misliking of it from the very first thereof.
Sore vext was she, poor soul, because that my
father would have the likes o' such brought up
'mongst his own ; for she was high-notioned in
the matter of our company-keeping, as is but
natural to the gentle-bora; — yet as to my father,
he was but a yeoman's son i' the old country
and had been a rough fighter 'gainst ill fortune
most o' his days, so set small store by such com-
parisons i' quality. And when my mother would
be sending Simon to the kitchen in a servant's
place (for we had a fair sizable house, builded
all of stone, with kitchen and offices thereto,
separate and orderly as any in old land or new),
why, then the master said stoutly nay to that
measure. " What, wife," quoth he, a-smiling so
plaguingly withal, " shall we so serve this prince ?
Is he not of the king's blood, forsooth ? an' to
be so packed off in kitchen 'mongst common

>•]

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

I 1

serving men an' maids ! Fie, fie ! " saith he ;
whereat the mistress crieth, " A pretty prince,
indeed ! " and tossed her head, a-looking but
scornfully upon the poor Indian finery (with
beads, gewgaws, an' such like, all tarnished an'
meanly make-a-shift as 't .was) of the dark little
lad. Then saith she, " What ! wilt thou even
such a swarth-skin with thine own children, at
bed an' board ? As well buy them a blacka-
moor brother from the Dutch ship, forsooth !
I 'm thinking 't would be all of a piece." Yet
my father spake in a right grave way, saying,
" Nay, wife, if thou canst not see the difference
betwixt a blackamoor an' such as this one, I pity
thy poor sight. I see God's hand i' this matter,"
quoth he, "and, if the child is let alone by his
own people to bide peaceably amongst us, it shall
be share an' share alike. Nay, nay ; my young
ones shall have no slaves to their ordering, red-
skinned or black, to make them saucy an' master-
ful. I like the look of this Simon Peter right
well, for all the father of him being Jack o' the
Feather. He shall have fair chance, by St.
George ! — for I 've a mind to play a game with
nature in this business. Aye, we will see where
Dame Nature endeth and breeding doth begin —
and if his father cometh to claim him some day
(for all 't is not likely he '11 be taking any such
pains), why, we '11 e'en give the boy his choice,
to go or stay, an' see how then."

" Aye, aye ! " saith my mother, " we will
see." Still, notwithstanding, she made no more
ado that time, save to make sure of Simon Peter
being shrewdly stript of his outlandish rags and
cleaner-washen than e'er he 'd been in his life
before, I reckon, for all he did most irefully
resist the same with howling. And after that
he was drest in a fair change of Francis's
clothes, the while his own new ones were a-
making.

So this way did it continue as my father said.
And we four children, being Dickon and Francis
and Simon Peter, with little poor me, that was
the one girl to herself 'mongst the lads' game-
some roughness — we four did grow up together
as brothers an' sister ; scarce anywise remem-
bering (for all we might daily see in outside
looks) the difference in blood. Nay, I will tell
true an' say out — howe'er some do think it
shameth nature — that I loved Simon the best

o' the three. He was the kindest and the lov-
ingest to me, I trow ; not that the other ones
durst be contrariwise, — or would, — but 't was
Simon that ever tamed behind with me if I
fell back a-weary by hard following after the
rest. Sometimes he bore me on his back 'cross
the stony ground or thro' the running water —
a-holding on for dear life round his neck. And
when I 'da mind to be playing with my doll
Queen Bess at a brave feast, with wine in acorn
cups and the like child's play-acting foolery,
why, 't was ever Frank an' Dicky that mocked
and would fain turn all naughtily upside down,
to plague me, had not Simon so stoutly stood
my part against them.

Now, as to the color of his skin (that some
amongst you listening would so mislike, may-
hap), I being used to it life-long, in a manner,
was nowise frighted at that. For the rest, he
was comely enough. His eyes, they were of a
very dark blackness, but piercing keen and
bright ; his hair was black and straight down-
hanging, and not soft to touch, tho' he would be
oft a-laying his head beside me to be stroked with
my two hands. Slim-shapen as a maid was he
and fair-featured, like to the pictures of Princess
Pocahontas herself, whom some accounted beau-
tiful — and his hands and feet were scarce big-
ger than mine own. Yet, for all thus lightsomely
builded, his strength was to the strength of
Francis an' Dickon as steel to wood, be it never
so hard wood and heavy, or a silken cord, hard
twisted, to a rude hempen string. There was
never a horse that could throw him after that
he was big enough to sit well astride its back —
not even the wildest colt of all on that land
— when the lads would be riding them to water
morn and even, or mayhap (for the learning
of horsemanship) around i' the pasture field.
Francis an' Dick had many a tumble, I promise
you, but Simon never a one. At running, wrest-
ling, and all such, who but he ? Then surely, I
do reckon, there was never another so wondrous
quick at book-learning, so knowledgeable and
cunning skillful in all ways. Nay, time would
fail me to tell you the half of his ingenious de-
visings. Such curious things as he would oft
be cutting with his knife, to be sure ! — as beasts,
birds, fishes, and what not, — aye ! even human
likenesses no less, out of slate, stone, or wood, or

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

maybe naught but a handful of damson seeds;
and for snaring of wildwood game or catching
of fish, his match was never seen.

Howsoever, despite of these advantagements,
and despite of general good behavior in decent
Christian manner o' life, yet, crost in humor, was
he still (as my mother scrupled not to say out,
when by him displeasured) the son o' his father
and true child of lawless race. Can one be
holden guilty of his birth-shame, good sooth,
or cast out the blood that naturally runneth in 's
veins? Nay, not so — meseemeth. Therefore
it did sorely hurt me to hear my mother ever
blaming Simon with all that went amiss 'twixt
him and Francis. She was a good woman,
Heaven rest her ! and true lover of them she
did love, but yet they were precious few so
favored, and Simon not one amongst them.
Now, with Dickon (he being of a rare sweet
humor) did Simon carry it peaceably enow;
but with Francis, who was heady and stubborn-
tempered as Simon himself, — aye, quicker to
make mad, tho' not so fierce i' the end — as for
those two, they would be often at odds. And
one day, when she did come upon these twain,
a-fighting tooth and nail, with Francis under-
most an' like to get the worst on 't, then she
cried out on Simon, for a heathenish beggar's
brat, who would come to hanging or shooting
yet, as 't was to be hoped his father had 'fore
now. 'T was a right cruel word, there 's no
denying ; yet was she sorely vext, for her excuse.
However, he turned upon her with so tiger-
fierce a look that she, stepping back, cried out,
" What, snake-eye ! wilt thou murther me as I
stand ? "

And so he looked a'most ready to do, in
sooth ; but up cometh my father then, who
was a just man to see the rights and wrongs of
such quarrels, and quoth he, "Foolish woman,
wilt thou put thought o' such evil into him
that 's but a passionate child ? Was 't not fair
fight betwixt them till thou didst stir up this ?
Look well to thine own willful young one, an'
leave the lad to me."

So, after that time my mother was carefuller
of such vexing speech ; yet she liked Simon
Peter no whit more in her heart.

Aye, aye ; he was no gentle lamb, in truth,
nor neither was our Francis for the matter o'

that — but Simon was ever kind and loving
enough unto me.

But yet ye must not be thinking that this was
ever the way o't with us. We 'd a happy home
as any,- for all such quarrelings now and again.
There was work to be done, a plenty, on the
new rugged land, and no negro slaves to tempt
white folk into idly looking on the while they be
driven as brute-beasts to toil an' moil. Some
few had the Dutch ships fetched, e'en then, for
trial, but my father would none of them. So
when that the lads were grown big enough, they
must needs be a-working i' the corn-fields and
tobacco ground, whilst I, with my mother and
the maids indoors, was learning of house matters,
as becometh a proper girl. Yet we 'd no stint
of sports, in due season. 'T was gayly and free
we were i' the summer evens, I promise you ;
yet the best of all came round on winter nights,
when, the work being all foredone, we might
sit us down by the fire so curiously a-listening
to our father's talk an' tellings of former times.
A many fine tales we heard then, concerning the
first comers-over to Virginia, their hardships,
trials, and very dreadful sufferings in every sort :
and of the great Captain John Smith, that was
so bold a fighter, and likewise of the most gentle
Princess Pocahontas, who did risk her life for
the saving of his, and was afterward, in her lov-
ing-kindness, the savior of this whole Virginia
from destruction ; also concerning the old poli-
tic King Powhatan, his state and majestical be-
havior — and I promise you that Simon would
be alway keenly hearkening to that. Also, my
father told us about the dark time of the famine
at Jamestown, when our people did, for very
starving hunger, horridly eat the carcasses of
such amongst them as had of hunger died ; and
that was what Dickon liked best of all to hear ;
but, for my part, I would the rather choose the
wreck of the ship " Sea- Venture," that was
casted away on the Bermuda Isles, a-com-
ing to Virginia, and how one Master William
Shakspere, 'way off in England, hearing o't
afterwhile, did make it into an acting play called
"The Tempest" — that is oft played i' London
Town to this very day.

So time passed, year after year, till our Dickon
was a great lad, with Francis and Simon turned
thirteen year old, and me 'most counting ten;

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

II 9

and then came to pass those strange, curious
happenings whereof I will now relate.

Now, all this while that Simon so dwelt con-
tentedly amongst us we did never hear aught to
a certainty of Nemattanow, called Jack o' the
Feather. One time, or twice, came a bruit from
'way off yonder, as how such an one had espied
him here, or another there ; and once somebody
told it that he had been catched sight of in the
great Indian town to northward, on York River,
a-ruffling it with the other braves and in high
favor with the king, Opechancanough. How-
soever, he troubled us not, all this so long while,
and well-nigh had we forgot him, in sooth, till
on a luckless day at last we 'd a pretty prick o'
the memory !

Now, 't was one fair even in May-month o'
the year 1622, when this turn on a sudden came
to pass.

I mind me right well, as 't were but yester
eve, how the sky did shine all of a rosy golden
color, and the little winds did blow so softly,
with smell o' May-blooms and §ound o' bird-
songs every which-a-way. 'T was milking-time,
a bit past sundown, and all of us out nigh the
cow-pen down i' the meadow. And my father
and mother so leisurely looked on whilst the
maids milked; yet we children did care naught
how much went dairy-way so we 'd only our fill
o' the syllabub and our sport with the youngling
calves. And there were we, so merrily together,
when who doth come walking out of the wood's
edge hard by and so boldly into our very midst
but an Indian man that I 'd never before set
eyes on.

Now, he was of a tall stature, and fierce-ap-
pearing withal. His skin was mighty dark and
weather-worn. His quiver for arrows was fash-
ioned out of a wolf's hide, with the natural head
right grisly hanging down, having a sort of wild
terror i' the look o't. In his right hand he did
carry a great bow, and also in the way of war-
like arms a tomahawk set in 's leathern girdle.
Upon his shoulders, breast, and legs, that were
naked and sunburnt to blackness, were painted
stripes and rings in divers colors commingled.
Round his neck and wrists did hang great strings
o' beads, right gaudily colored — and for all his
fierce aspect he 'd earrings, like any woman,
a-dangling from his ears. Atop of his head the

hair stood up bristling in a narrow ridge, after
the way of a cockscomb, from brow to nape,
but 't was clean shaven away on both sides ;
and out-topping all — being someway outland-
ishly stuck i' the very crown o' the ridge — was
a prodigiously great and long eagle's feather.

Then all of us stopped short our doings as he
drew nigh, for gazing curiously upon him. And
in answer to mannerly good-even of us all, he
did give, as 't were, a grunt, after the fashion of
his people, belike ; yet when my father saith to
him then, " Sir, what is your business here this
even ? " he said not a word, only he stood stead-
fastly looking upon Simon.

So then we did all turn the same way, and
behold ! Simon had gone ashen- white under
his natural brownness ; and he stood stone-still,
a-staring at that other, like, mayhap, as when
one doth see on a sudden the ghost of somebody
long dead, and well-nigh forgot, beck to him out
o' the darkness. And whiles we all so stood, in
wonder, the Indian man, pointing to his own
breast, did say, in a harsh voice, " Me father,
me father ! " and then, pointing to Simon straight,
said, " He son, he son ! " Which spoken he
waved his hand back that way he had come
and cried in a louder voice right fiercely, saying,
" Son go with father ! "

Then Simon answered ne'er a word, but my
father spoke up, crying, " Ha ! Jack o' the
Feather ! I thought I had seen thy rascally face
before. Darest thou set foot in these parts again ?
A pretty father thou art, that didst leave thy son
to starve ! 'T is no thanks to thee, I trow, that
he is 'live an' well to-day, an' by right and might
I swear he shall not go with thee, fellow, except
he himself do so choose ! "

Then saith he to the lad, " Simon Peter, this
is in truth thy father, of whose kindness to thee
thou 'st often heard tell. Wilt thou willingly go
with him ? "

But yet Simon was as one dumb, speaking no
word ; only he shook in every limb as struck by
a shaking ague. And Jack o' the Feather, see-
ing that, saith unto him a few words, right low,
— i' the Indian tongue, I reckon, for they were
such as none among us sensed the meaning of.
Now 't was little of that speech that Simon did.
by this while remember, save a word o't here
an' there, half lost in 's mind. Howsoe'er, when

] 20

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Disc.

that he did hear it now spoken, he looked in a
wild way, as when one heareth in dreams a very
strange back-drawing voice of witchery that he
may scarce resist but is yet death-frighted to fol-
low. In faith, I was like to cry out loud that
moment — for I did think by the look o' his
eyes then that he was going sure enow. Never-
theless was there no need for such fear, for he
on a sudden put his two hands over his face and
cried out with a loud voice, " No ! no ! no ! I
will not go with thee ! "

Now, that hearing, the Indian looked a very
black, murtherous look, and laid hand on his
tomahawk, but my father, stepping quick afore
the lad, saith unto him, " Begone ! " in such voice
as e'en Jack o' the Feather dare not brook, I
ween. Go he did, of a truth, an' that straight-
way, yet stept he slow and proudly, as in very
vexing scorn ; and at the wood's edge he turned
him round and waved his bow in threating way,
as half in mind to shoot. Howbeit, that he did
not, but passed into the dark forest, and we saw
him no more. And, I promise you, e'en my
mother did carry it right lovingly to Simon
that night.

Now the chance that did befall Jack o' the
Feather that same even, aye, within the very
same hour, was none of our fault, thank Heaven !
yet truly scarce more than his fair desert and no
just cause of grieving to anybody. 'T was as he
was making so hardily, and in a swaggering
manner o' boldness, along the open highway,
that whom doth he meet, face to face, but Mas-
ter Thomas Godkyn ! Small wonder (as was
commonly said by all) that Master Godkyn
waxed right mad at that sight. Be that as may,
he was ever a passionate man, besides that time
somewhat in liquor, no less, an' there passed
sharp words betwixt 'em on that old matter o'
the maimed bull. 'T was Jack o' the Feather
that struck first blow (as Master Godkyn did after-
time solemnly swear) and 't was Master Godkyn
that slew him in the fight that so followed. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. As to the
manner of that fight, I do remember it well,
having oft with mine own ears heard him, our
neighbor, relate the same. A shrewd tussle it
was, he did use to say, an' betwixt two that were
o'erwell matched to make one the easy master ;

and so a-saying would he shake head right so-
berly thereupon, at mere after calling o't to mind.
'T was the red man that struck first blow, as I
said afore. " Mayhap the gallows will be high
enow, Sir Jack, for even your top notions," quoth
Master Godkyn, and, hearing this spoken, lo !
that other gave a very brutish, fierce cry, and
flinging behind him his great bow (which same
was no ready weapon in such sudden encounter),
he made at Master Godkyn with his tomahawk.
Howsoever, that stroke, for all it did start the
blood (and that from no mere skin-scratch,
neither), fell somewhat short, belike, — and e'en
whilst he raised the murtherous thing aloft for
another down-come, why, then did Master God-
kyn with a swift cunning dash o' the fist, that he
had learnt long agone when a young sporting
lad in England, strike it clean out of his hand.
So there was Jack o' the Feather fairly disarmed ;
but yet, in sooth, the worst o't was still to come
for Master Godkyn; for when he would essay to
draw his good knife from his belt, why, what doth
that savage but clip him on a sudden in 's arms
as who would then and there squeeze very heart
and life out of his body. He was a strong proper
man as the most, was Master Godkyn, and stoutly
builded, to give blow or withstand, but a many
a time have I heard him say how on the first
amaze of this besetment he was but as little chick
in the coil of a black whip-snake. Truly this
weakness did in a moment pass — for the fear
of a sudden death maketh strong — and even as
Master Godkyn did feel his breath going from
him he made shift to catch it again. Whereupon
'gan the struggle in good earnest. For that Indian,
his arms were as iron hard, and cruel strong, and
his ribs were as brass ; yet was the white man
he had thus laid hold on, not one to stand still
an' be crushed in any such devil's-trap. There
they had it, for sure, this way, that, an' t' other,
— a-straining and a-tugging for dear life 'gainst
foul death. 'T was a right curious turn o' the
mind (so Master Godkyn said afterward), and
such as the like of had ne'er before come unto
him, but 't was sure-enough truth, no less, that
he did remember and see plain, 'fore his senses
in a moment, nay, in the twinkling of an eye, that
time, all things he had ever done and said of good
or ill, life-long. Also it came to him in a sharp,
raging way, as 't were a dagger struck through

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

121

the heart, how many perils he had 'scapen, by
land and sea, to fall now, mayhap, by such base
means at last. So ran this thought within him,
lightning-quick and furious : What ! was 't for
this he did over-live the sweating-sickness in
London Town, and the fight with pirates a-com-
ing 'cross the ocean
(wherein so many
bold fellows were
bloodily cut down),
and the wreck of the
" Sea-Venture " (for
he was one o' that
company), an' all
the starving-time at
Jamestown — with
many other notable
dangers, past men-
tion — to die not
Christianly in his
bed at last, but in
sudden unbeknown
fight with a red In-
dian knave, and he
not even accounted
anybody 'mongst his
own people. Then
that was a bitter-
black thought, for-
sooth, but yet, may-
be, the saving o' his
life, no less ; for e'en
in the swift passing
rage thereof, he be-
thought him of a
wrestling trick well-
nigh forgot in 's
mind that might
avail him at this
pinch. Now, by this
trick it was that he
tripped up and over-
threw his adversary,
who, falling right
heavily undermost upon the stony highway, did
perforce somewhat loosen that fell grip ; and so
it came to pass that Master Godkyn did make
out at last to draw his knife, and then, as Jack
o' the Feather started up again (like any fierce
beast that 's brought to its last bay), why, then
Vol. XVII.— 15.

did Master Godkyn, for defending of his own life,
stab him to the very heart so that he fell back
an' died.

So that was the end of that encounter. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. And the dead

SOMETIMES HE BORE ME ON HIS BACK THRO THE RUNNING WATER.

body was given o'er to two of his kin, who did
hap to come a-seeking him, and bore it back
with them that way they came — nor did any
man at that time call Master Godkyn to account
for the same ; only it seemeth to me always a
fearsome thing to have man's blood on one's

12 2

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

hands ; neither was I anywise astonished at
Simon's taking of the news when my father told
it him. Was 't not his natural born father, in
sooth, flesh o' his flesh, blood o' his blood — de-
spite of opposing misbehavior? So it seemed as
naught strange to me, as to the rest, that he hid
himself away from sight of all, that day of hear-
ing it, and for many days afterward had few
words to speak to anybody.

Well, well ! a right wonderful thing is nature,
truly, and it taketh its own way despite of law
and gospel and all contrary custom. Now,
whether 't was the killing o' his father at that
time, or whether the natural turn o' his mind to
work darksomely upon itself, that did bring
round such change in Simon, God knoweth !
but a change there was, for certain. He had
ne'er been given to chatter overmuch, but 't was
fairly as one tongue-tied he did now appear.
As for the daily tasks, them did he do as afore-
time, only in a sullen and grievous way, like to
any driven slave ; yet he sported no more at all,
the rather choosing that time to himself for lone-
somely walking abroad or brooding in some
corner apart. Alackaday ! The poor lad ! my
heart doth ache for him now. 'T was a strange
case to be so situate betwixt one's natural race
and kindred and such as were bounden enemies
(and that past control of will) 'gainst them and
theirs forever. Aye, aye ; for all I was but a
child then, and too little to sense aright the ins
and outs thereof, it hath come to me since, I
trow; an' small wonder 't is that the blackness
of his eyes i' those days was as night without
moon or star.

Now, as to his own Indian race and nation, he
had ne'er aforetime been curious in asking of
questions, for all ever keenly a-listening to aught
about them spoken. Neither did he inquire
anything by word of mouth in these days
whereof I tell, only he would be now always
secretly spelling o'er in my father's books what
was there writ down concerning the same, by
Captain John Smith and others. Also many 's
the time I did see him pick up an Indian arrow-
head from the ground (for there were many
thereabout scattered) and so stand gazing upon
it, goodness knoweth how long by the clock ! as
thinking strange thoughts inside of him, may-
hap, and clean forgetting all else in this world.

Also, would he oft be walking solitarily and spy-
ing 'mongst some two or three ancient ruined
wigwams left long empty i' the wood hard by ;
yet, I promise you, if our lads durst ever any-
wise plague him concerning this so strange be-
havior he was as tow to fire. So it passed, day
in and out, weeks and months one after t' other,
till the summer season o' that year was gone
and autumn did come round.

Now, concerning the very dreadful thing that
then befell in Virginia, 't was even as a thunder-
bolt out of a fair even sky, with not the merest
little small cloud for a warning aforetime. Nay,
whoever would in reason have foredreamt it or
supposed it as anywise possible, e'en of that most
subtle, secret, and murtherous Indian people,
after so long peace and friendly commingling
together ! Surely never in this world was so
cruel and barbarous assault so unprovoken ; for
as to the killing of Jack o' the Feather, which
same mishap, 't was afterward told, had been
made a handle of by the King Opechancanough
in stirring up of wrath 'gainst the English — as
to that, but little store did the red people truly
set by him, I do reckon, nor was any white man
but the one (being Master Godkyn himself) con-
cerned in that business. Neither could those
Indians anywise justly complain how the whites
had them in a manner dispossest, seeing that
themselves had willingly consented thereto.
Was 't they, or their forefathers, that did 'stablish
boundaries, dig foundations, or make any proper
decent settlements ? Nay, not so ; nor doth
he set overmuch value on God's earth, I 'm
thinking, who will sell the same to first-comer
for a string o' beads or gaudy garment. A full
ten year and more had peace continued, with
kindness and good neighboring on both sides.
And many of the Indians had removed 'way off
to northward into the great woods on York
River, but yet a many more were still tarrying
amongst us, aye, not a few in fair houses builded
for them, English fashion, by the settlers. More-
over, not a few, again, had been taken in, even as
Simon, by the whites as children or dear favored
servants ; and thus, lo and behold ! did it come
to pass that these vipers for the most part, being
warmed and filled, did in very natural poisonous
malice strike the hand that fed them, or the
rather as under-sappers and miners of the walls

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

I23

that sheltered them seek to fetch all down —
e'en tho' to their own crushing destruction — by
the fell blow of this bloody vengeance. So was
the foul plot laid in secret for that massacre, the
dreadfulest thing that did ever hap in all Vir-
ginia, and such as I pray God will never be
again — and of it, as I said before, was no
littlest warning given. There be sometimes
signs an' signals in nature foretelling such ca-
lamity, as have oftentimes been proven. Yea,
a-many a one have I myself taken note of for
lesser trouble than that. Howsoever, for all
our dairy-wench, Dolly Shaw, would be telling
afterward about a death-watch ticking in her
ear nine nights a-running, and a bloody red
sunrise on the Friday morn next afore that
woful Christmas day — why, it was all too late,
as my mother said, for any such talk then.

And it came to pass, one even in December
month, that I did follow Simon on one of his
lonesome goings unto those old crumbling wig-
wams i' the woods, whereof I have told. 'T was
little note he had taken of me an' my plays
for many a long day, sure enough, but I was
a- wearying of mine own company that time, with
Francis an' Dick gone a-hunting and my mother
and all the maids too busy o'er house matters to
speak me even a word. So running after Simon
(afar off, yet ever keeping him in sight) I did go
along into the dark, thick forest ; yet when he
reached that place I hardly durst fetch up unto
him, but stopped and hid me behind a little
cedar bush hard by the path to screw up my
courage. And behold ! whiles I was standing
there a-peeping thro', what did I see but a very
tall and fierce-appearing Indian man come out
o' the nighest wigwam arid fall a-talking with
Simon.

So there stood they, face to face ; and there
stood I — a-looking frightedly — 'most ready to
run back that way I 'd come, only I durst not,
any more than go on. Ne'er a word that they
said could I hear, but I saw that the tall Indian
spake as 't were earnestly, and with right fierce,
uncouth gestures did enforce the same. Also I
saw that, at the first of it, Simon did shake head
an' turn away — as who mayhap doth say, "No,
no, no ! " to somewhat or other and will scarce
hearken thereto. Whereupon the man, waxing
still more vehement, stamped upon the ground

and pointed fiercely with 's long cruel-shapen
fingers, this way, that, an' t' other — till presently
I, making sure that he pointed once straight at
me, fell down for very terror where I stood. So
I lay a-quaking. And after a while (goodness
knoweth how long ! but it did seem monstrous
long to me) came Simon himself, a-running
back, — yet heavily and stumbling as one half-
blind, — and so espied me there.

Then he stood as one amazed, looking first
at me, then back o'er his shoulder fearsomely ;
but I perceived that the strange Indian had
turned away, making off swiftly into the wood.
And Simon cried out to me, " Gillian ! Gillian !
didst thou hear what he said ? Didst hear ? "
And I said truly, nay ; but that I saw the man.
Whereupon I fell a-crying for very fear of I
knew not what. And I said, " Oh, Simon !'
what hast thou to do with the dreadful dark
man ? Oh, prythee take me home, Simon, lest
he should come again ! " For truly I was
frighted 'most to death at the very thought o'
that, and I held him tight, a-weeping. But he
cried out loud, vehemently, " No ! no ! he will
not come. He shall not hurt thee ! He shall
not ! he shall not ! They shall ne'er hurt thee
in this world, my little sister Gillian ! "

So with that he comforted me, saying those
same words o'er and o'er again, " Gillian ! Gil-
lian ! my little sister, Gillian!" And so drying
my tears right kindly, as my brother might, he
did carry me home (when that I had ceased to
weep) afore him in his arms. But he straightly
charged me to tell nobody that which I had seen - f
and I, knowing naught of the harm thereof, did
promise to keep it secret.

Now, that was nigh a week before Christmas,
which same was the secretly appointed time.
Never before had his mood been so black, I
trow, e'en at worst. 'T was as if an ill disease
had him fast, for truly the flesh wasted off his
bones from one day to next, and scarce a mor-
sel of victual would he be eating. I do think
that e'en my mother had more pitied than
blamed him that while, but for his darksome
scowls and downcast shunning o' the looks of us
all. But as it was, in sooth, she cried, "He
surely hath a devil ! Alackaday ! " quoth she,
" that such an one, so possest in evil, did ever
come into this house ! " Aye, even my father

124

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

turned 'gainst him then, for saith he, " Is this
how he doth repay my kindness to him, life-long !
Tis an ill-conditioned lad," quoth he, "an' my
wife hath been wiser than I, all along, in this
matter. Let none either chide or coax, but all
leave him alone in his foul sulking humor till
I find place for him otherwhere than in my
house."

So by that command did all abide. In sooth,
I do reckon, I was the only one of all i' the
house that did anywise yearn to the contrary.
But I durst not bespeak Simon a word, and thus
was he left to his own thoughts an' devices till
the very day came round.

I mind well that Christmas eve, an' for the
matter o' that there be few a-living in this Vir-
ginia, from then till now, who have forgot the
same, I do reck. Such a baking and brewing,
such roasting and boiling, such a garnishing an'
making ready for next day's feast, as there was
with us, to be sure ! for howsoever times might
pinch in common, my father and mother needs
must be making shift to keep Christmas holi-
day i' the good old English fashion of their
young days. I mind how we had a brave pasty
that day for dinner, in foretaste o' the morrow,
and when we sat down at table, at about one
o' the clock, all were there a'ready to eat but
Simon. Whereupon my father saith, " Where
is Master Doleful Dumps, I pray ? " And my
mother cried, " Dear heart, I do neither know
nor care ! " But Dolly Shaw, who stood behind
her chair, spake up, saying, " He is in the top
loft o' the house, where he hath e'en been well-
nigh all day, a-sulking." Then Dickon would
be asking (for he had e'er a rare sweet humor,
had our Dick), " Shall I run tell him o' the
pasty ? " Howsoever, the master made answer,
No. " Let him wait till he be hungry," quoth
he, " for I warrant empty stomach needs no
coaxing. He will be high in place tho' low in
spirit, it doth seem. Fetch him not down."

So then all did go on to eat without more ado ;
but, for mine own part, the victual seemed to
go against me that day.

Now, when that the meal was o'er, some went
one way, some another, about their several mat-
ters ; yet I could do naught in pleasure for think-
ing of Simon, 'way up yonder, so lonesome and
without cheer. In faith, I was always a loving

little lass, an' tender-true to them that had
showed me kindness ; nor could I then deck my
doll in holiday fashion, nor look on at the maids
i' the kitchen, nor sport with my tame deer, nor
anywise content me with this trouble on my
mind. Wherefore, as hour after hour did pass,
I bethought me how thirsty he must be by that
time. 'T was not of hunger I would be think-
ing, for truly he seemed to have forgot the feel
o' that in those days ; but all must surely drink
to live. 'T was a green Christmas, that (and
such as old folk say maketh a fat graveyard),
and mighty warm for the season ; and I had
noted well, at time of breakfast that morn, how
Simon, eating no single mouthful, drank scarce
one cup o' milk. Moreover, I also bethought
me how folk would oft be talking of peace an'
good will at Christmas-tide, even as the Bible
telleth that angels sang unto those shepherds
a-listening on the hill-top ; yet, in sooth, that
saying did then appear but an idle mock to me,
and no peace in mine heart at all, with Simon
left out a-cold. And so I said within myself,
" 'T is surely no harm nor naughty disobedience,
nor will my father 'count it any such, if I carry
him a drink." Then I took from the mantel-
shelf mine own silver cup, that my grandmother
Griffin had sent unto me for a christening gift,
all the way from England, and fetched it brim-
ming full o' fresh fair water from the spring,
unseen by anybody. And I went with it in my
two hands so softly (for fear of spilling) up the
big stair an' the little steep stair into the great
loft room.

Now, 't was the first time that I did ever go
alone, of mine own accord, into that room, for
it had ever seemed to me a strange and awe-
some place, mayhap resembling some such as
we hear tell of in old enchanted houses or the
like. Not that our house had been builded
long, or was aught like a grand big castle.
Nay ! But in this top room that spread all o'er
the bigness o't, it was ever half dark as twilight,
having only one little small window for the
whole, and the great beams o' the roof so heav-
ily sloping down, with cobwebs hanging there-
from. Then a-many strange things were there
stored away for safe-keeping that no place might
be found for i' the house below, such as the
skins of divers beasts, tanned with the fur on,

'THERE THEY HAD IT, FOR SURE, TUTS WAV, THAT, AN' T OTHER.

126

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

as they had been killed from time to time, and
hanged up for some-day use ; or weapons of
warfare, as swords, pikes, bludgeons, and so on,
laid by 'gainst troublous times. Also, was there
a great bedstead that my mother would be
keeping for the fitting of a guest-chamber after-
while, with the tall carven posts bewrapt in white
linen an' looking like any four ghosts i' their
shrouds; with ancient storage-chests, broken
tables, chairs, and what not of relics from the
Old World, mingled together disorderly with
trophies of the New.

Now, at first I saw nothing at all of Simon,
and 'gan to think he was there no longer, when
presently I did espy him. There was he, sure
enough, in a far dim corner, a-sitting dolefully,
as 't were, all huddled up on one o' the big chests.
Only, his face and hands I could not see, for they
were hid in a wolfskin there hanging from a
beam o'erhead, even as a child doth cling and
hide face in his mother's skirt, mayhap — as I
bethought me then and afterward. So I waited
a little space, but yet he did not look up nor stir ;
and then I went softly 'cross the floor, till being
come nigh I did hold up the cup an' say, " Simon,
I have fetched thee a drink ! " Then he let go
of the wolfskin and looked up, a-shuddering all
o'er his body and appearing, mayhap, like one
on a sudden half waken from a very dark, horrid
dream, whereby he is still holden an' distrest,
not knowing false from true. Yet never a word
he spake ; only stared so strangely at me as I
stood. Whereupon I said again, — for all a bit
quaking at the woful blackness o' his gaze, —
" Art thou not thirsty, Simon ? Dost thou not
know 't is Christmas-tide ? An' wilt thou not
drink this fair water in mine own silver cup —
for peace an' good will ? "

Still he looked at me in a wild way, and all
round the room, shaking like as if I had struck
him with those words. Yet did he not take the
water ; and all o' the instant, e'en as I so stood
reaching it out unto him — lo ! he gave a very
dreadful sharp cry, like somewhat had broke
within him, and flung him face down on the
floor betwixt us.

Now, at that I stood frighted and trembling,
till the water was spilled and the cup nigh
fell from my hand. And naught durst I say, or
could, but " Simon ! Simon ! " o'er and o'er again.

And to that he made no answer, only so a-lying
i' the dust did strike on the floor with his hand —
most dreadfully a-weeping and moaning, for
some space ; till presently he, looking up, said
unto me, " Call the master ! "

Then I went down, as fast as I might for legs
a-trembling underneath me, and called my father,
who did come up hastily and wondering at that
summons. Also my mother came a-running
behind, and the maids from their cookery, and
the lads from cleaning of their guns i' the hall —
all in haste and amazedly to see what was toward
now. And when my father was come into the
room (for those others did but listen on the
stair) there was Simon, a-standing straight up,
yet shaking as who doth face death.

Then, 'fore ever my father might ask e'en,
How 's this ? he cried out loud, saying, " There
is yet time ! There is yet time ! Strike me dead
when I have told it," crieth he, " but listen to me
first!" Then saith he on, "They have whetted
their knives. They have sharpened their toma-
hawks — for blood, blood, blood, this night!
Opechancanough, the king, hath planned it —
all the red men have sworn together. This
night by darkfall will the killing begin all o'er
Virginia — the killing o' the white people ! "

And he, throwing himself down on 's knees
afore my father, said in a wild way, " Master !
Master ! They did promise me not to slay thee,
or Gillian, or Dick. I did vow at first to tell,
'less they promised me that. Yet have I seen it
'fore mine eyes, day an' night — the blood and
the killing — and the crying was in mine ears.
Then Gillian came with the water — and now I
prythee strike me dead, for I am false to both
sides ! I am neither white nor red — an' not
anywise worth to live ! "

Now, that hearing, my mother and the maids
cried out for fear, " God ha' mercy ! What
will become of us ! " and there came a white-
ness even o'er my father's face, for 't was a fear-
some dreadful thing to think of, an' the sun nigh
going down — as from the little window we
might see. Howsoever, he laid not his hand
on the lad, but, after that he harl bidden the
woman take heart o' grace, he said unto him,
" Up, boy, an' get thee down with me. Thou
hast been bad enow, God knoweth : — but 't is
our part to save, an' not to kill, this night. I

i88 9 .]

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

127

will give thee chance a plenty, by St. George !
to prove thee yet worthy living."

'T was well we had good horses and strong —
aye, an' well-fed — in our stable, for 't was both
fast and far they needs must go that even.
Good twenty miles were we from Jamestown,
as the crow flieth ; eighteen miles the way lay
to Wyanoke on one hand, nineteen or so was it
to Falling Creek on t' other — through wood
and swamp, with scarce road or track at all. As
for my father, he must needs stay for our defense
at home; but on the three fleetest horses the
three lads did go to warn and save such as
might be. I mind how my mother wept over
an' kissed Francis and Dickon as 't were death-
parting to see them go — and sooth, poor soul !
I reckon she guessed full well how 't would be
with them both, if they made not good speed ere
sundown. But unto Simon 't was only my father
that said good-bye, when he started the James-
town way, on wild Blackamoor a-riding. " Now,
if thou wouldst show human good inside thee,"
saith he, " I charge thee ride thy best." And
Simon's face was as any stone set when he heard
that word and started forth.

Well, well! 't is over an' done, bless Heaven!
this many a year agone, and may we never
see the like of such a Christmas e'er again in
Virginia, I do pray ! Good speed the three
lads made in their several ways. 'T was Simon
that did first win to the end o' his, for all it was
the longest. So was Jamestown saved, and so
likewise did those two other settlements 'scape
from fire and bloody slaughter. I promise you,
those murtherous yelling knaves that came
'gainst our house that night did find my father
ready with warmer welcome than they looked
for. Yet alas and alas for them who had no
such a warning as ours ! and alas for all Virginia
that bitter, cruel night ! Right bloodily the white
people wrought vengeance for 't in aftertime.
Aye, aye ; 't was said they did hunt the Indians
like wild beasts, in some parts, with bloodhounds

fetched o'er from England a purpose for the busi-
ness ; yet it brought not the dead ones to life
again, so killed in sudden horrid massacre. At
Warrasqueake, an' Flower de Hundred, and
Martin's Brandon, and Westover — nay, where
not elsewhere, i' faith, save the three places that
our three lads did save ! All o'er the land, to
tell truth, was foul murther done ; with hundreds
o' dead corpses that were live and warm at sun-
down left a-cold ere daybreak, and that unhu-
manly hacked to bits in a manner not befitting
civil ears to hear tell of. I trow the Christmas
viands were but funeral meats that woful time,
an' Christmas hymns of cheer all turned to
dirges. Yea, lads an' lasses here a-listening, ye
may e'en thank God on bended knees this night
for that these days be not like them agone !

Now as to Totapotamoi, or Simon Peter, as we
always called him, we never saw that lad more,
nor heard to any certainty what did become
o' him. My father found the horse Blackamoor
safe enough in James City next morn, but 'mongst
all the townsfolk none might know how it had
gone with the rider when his message was told.
And whether he slew himself in dark despairing
mood ; or was slain by the Indians in wrath for
his betrayal of their wickedness ; or whether
he doth still live with them, his natural kin and
race, in the great woods behind the mountains
(as was long aftertime rumored credibly to be
the way o't), God knoweth, not I ; but it hath
always pleased me to think him still a-living, an'
that some day 'fore I died I might set eyes on
him again.

'T was many a long day ere my heart would
give o'er aching at the thought o' him, for all
the folk would oft be a-telling me that time and
after, with tears and kisses, that when God him-
self did put into my head to fetch the Indian lad
that water in my silver cup, 't was even (in the
saving o' precious lives) as the Bible saith con-
cerning them that so a-doing will not lose their
goodly reward.

THE STORY OF THE ICEBERG.

' Out from the dark, mysterious North,
II itk all its glamour, every night
Tingling with nu/orgotten dreams,
And every day Jlood-j 'nil of light."

12S

THE STORY OF THE ICEBERG.

By Harriet Prescott Spofford.

How weary the ice-river grew

In those dark months of winter night,

And, poised upon his lofty cliff,

Longed, longed, for other worlds and flight.

What use was all his mighty mold,
With none to wonder and admire

The light and color that he held,
The moonstone gleam, the opal fire !

In vain the mother glacier showed
Pale altars answering with cold rites

The flashes of eternal stars,

The lances of the northern lights ;

A band of sunbeams came that way,

Tempted, and touched, and lured him
on, —

Wild dreams of suns and southern skies, —
A wrench, a plunge, and he was gone.

With swift embrace the billows swelled
To meet him, leaping twice and thrice

In thunder, ere they led him forth,
King of a world of floating ice.

Down, down, by viewless currents drawn,
His huge mass underneath the sea,

His lofty tops enskyed, he moved
Like some vast fleet in majesty, —

Out from the dark, mysterious North,
With all its glamour, every night

Tingling with unforgotten dreams,
And every day flood-full of light.

The white bear slumbered in his caves ;

The sunbeams played about his tips ;
Down, down he bore to summer seas

And crashed his way through sinking ships.

And drowning sailors saw on high
Those icy walls where surges tossed,

Descended out of heaven, a pile
Of jeweled splendor fired in frost.
Vol. XVII.— 16. i

Lapis and turquois pierced with light
To sapphire, emerald hollows paled

To beryl, topaz burning clear
In flames of chrysolite, he sailed.

Down, down to equatorial seas

Still slowly drifting, — ah, how sweet

These soft caresses of the tide

Far in the depths about his feet ! .

How tenderly this morning gleam

Saluted all his shining spires,
That far away the voyager saw

Tipped with the blaze of ruby fires !

How ardently through warm south winds
The stresses of the noontide beat,

Till brooks burst forth far up his sides,
Dissolving in a fervent heat.

Now plumed with streaming smoke he went,

Now but a cloud of amethyst,
The ghost of glory, weird and white,

Now wrapt within a world of mist.

The sweet and treacherous currents still
Around his weakening bases whirled,

The great throat of the hurricane

Tremendous blasts against him hurled.

Into blue air he crept ; and now

Those sunbeams armed with javelins
swarmed,
A hostile legion, fierce and fain,

And all his awful beauty stormed.

Ah, for that dim dark home once more,
Those lances of the northern lights !

Then his tops bent them to their fall,

The wide seas rose and drowned his heights.

And, but a hulk of crumbling ice,
Within the deep he found his grave,

Stranded upon a hidden key,

And washed to nothing by a wave.

(A Morse Tale Freely Retold." )

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen.

'HERE was once a cler-
gyman who lived some-
where in the interior
mountain valleys of
Norway. He had five
children, all of whom
were dear to him ; but
there was one among
them who was nearer
to his heart than all
the rest ; and that was
a little girl, five years
old, named Alvilda. It
may have been because she was the youngest
of the five ; and the youngest, especially if it
is a girl, is always likely to be the father's
pet ; or it may have been because she was a
very sweet and lovable child who drew all
hearts toward her as the sun draws the flow-
ers. When her mother took her to church on
Sunday morning, she slipped like a sunbeam
among the somber congregation, and all faces
brightened and a softer look stole into the eyes
of old and young, when she passed by. In her
quaint little poke-bonnet and her old-fashioned
gown, and with her chubby little hands folded
over her mother's liymn-book, she did, indeed,
look so bewitching that it seemed a hardship
not to stop and kiss her. " Bless the child,"

said the matrons, with heartfelt unction, when
her bright smile beamed upon them. " Bless
her dear little heart," ejaculated the young girls
admiringly, as they knelt down in the road to
pat Alvilda, to kiss her, or only to touch her
in passing.

When Alvilda's fifth birthday came it hap-
pened to be right in the middle of the berry
season ; and it was determined to celebrate it
by a berrying party to which a dozen children
of the neighborhood were invited. Fritz, Al-
vilda's fourteen-year-old brother, whom she
abjectly admired, magnanimously undertook the
duty of sending out the invitations ; and he con-
sulted his own sovereign fancy in inviting those
whom he liked and leaving out those who had
had the misfortune to incur his displeasure. It
was found when all the children gathered in
front of the parsonage, about nine o'clock in the
morning, that it was indeed Fritz's party rather
than Alvilda's. But Alvilda, who always thought
that whatever Fritz did was well done, was
perfectly content. She liked big boys, she said,
because they were not half the trouble that
little girls were. First, there was her brother
Charles, twelve years old, who was the proud
possessor of a drum which had been presented
to him at Christmas ; the judge's Albert, thirteen
years old, who was, to be sure, a great tease, and

* This story, or rather the principal incident in it, I heard as a child, and have an impression that it is found
in one of the Norwegian school-readers. I do not remember who is its author, if I ever knew ; but it is known to
every Norwegian child, and is a kind of classic of the Norse nursery. H. H. B.

130

LITTLE ALVILDA.

inclined to run off with Fritz on all sorts of mys-
terious errands ; and there was the lawyer's Fred-
erick, who never spoke to girls in public for
fear of being thought frivolous. Of girls there
were but two : Sophy, Alvilda's fifteen-year-old
sister, who was almost grown up, and carried
a novel in her pocket which she read at odd
moments in the garden, in the kitchen, and, most
of all, in the woods ; and Albert's sister, Inge-
borg, who had so many delightful secrets which
she would never share with anybody except her
bosom friend Sophy.

Fritz, who had provided himself with a tin
trumpet, marshaled his forces in the yard, and,
having arranged them in rank and file like sol-
diers, gave the command, " Forward, march! "

The girls followed as best they could ; the
two elder ones leading Alvilda by the hand be-
tween them. The father, who was reluctant to
send her into the woods, fearing that she might
become overtired, charged them not to leave her
for a moment, and to see that she had an oppor-
tunity to rest whenever she wished, all of which
Sophy and Ingeborg promised.

The weather was glorious : the sun was just
warm enough to be agreeable, and the light
clouds which sailed over the blue vault of the
sky seemed to be having a happy time of it.
The woods which grew in the rugged glens on
the slope of the mountain were filled with the
fragrance of birch and pine and lilies of the val-
ley ; and the brooks, swollen by the melting ice
of the glaciers, danced gayly down through the
ravines, with a constant, gurgling rush which fell
pleasantly upon the ear.

When the boys left the highway for the moun-
tain-paths, they broke ranks, and each scrambled
up over the rocks as best he could. It was in
vain that Fritz blew his trumpet and Charles
beat his drum. To climb the great moss-grown
rocks was too inviting ; and to stand on the top
of them and shout against the mountain wall,
which gave such a splendid echo, was a delight
which made the heart leap in one's bosom.
Fritz himself was not proof against such temp-
tations, and finding his commands ignored, he
gracefully surrendered his dignity and joined
with a will in the sports of the rest. There were
squirrels to be stoned, — not a very nice sport, I
admit, — and later Fritz was ashamed of having

engaged in it. But there was much of the
savage about him when he found himself in
the woods, and he made it a point to act out
the character and suppress whatever gentle emo-
tions may have stirred in his bosom. Happily,
the squirrels were too nimble and alert for the
boys, and sat chattering at them from the upper
branches of the pines, where the stones, if they
reached at all, went wildly amiss. They then
found a toad, and would, I fear, have pitched it
heavenward from the end of a board, if the girls
with Alvilda had not caught up with them ; and
the latter, in consideration of its being her birth-
day, was gallantly permitted to save the con-
demned miscreant. For these boys, whoever
and whatever they were, were never themselves.
They were by turns robbers, pirates, medieval
knights, Norse vikings, everything under the sun
they could think of, except nice, respectable
country boys, — sons, respectively, of a lawyer, a
judge, and a clergyman. A toad, in their hands,
became a captured merchant, or an enchanted
princess, or a thief condemned to death, as the
case might be. But it never by any possibility
remained a toad.

When they had climbed for an hour, Alvilda
began to grow tired; and Fritz, seeing that there
was no likelihood of reaching the enchanted ter-
ritory he had in view, without carrying her, un-
dertook with the aid of his comrades to make
a litter of soft pine branches which was quite
comfortable to repose upon. The boys then
took turns carrying Alvilda, addressing her all
the while as the Princess Kunigunde, who was
betrothed to the King of Andalusia, and was
now being borne by her faithful knights to meet
her royal adorer. Alvilda laughed heartily at
their absurd deferential speeches ; and her clear
voice rang through the woods, startling now a
covey of partridges which broke with a frightened
hum through the underbrush, now a hare which
scooted away with long leaps over the heather,
now a wild duck which, with a great flapping of
wings, darted away in a straight line over the
water, leaving its young in the lurch among the
sedges. But, although she found it ridiculous,
Alvilda enjoyed immensely being a princess and
having her devoted knights kiss her hand and
bend their knees when they spoke to her.

It was about eleven o'clock when the party

132

LITTLE ALVILDA.

[Dec.

reached Fritz's berrying-grounds, which he had
discovered a few days ago, when on an expedi-
tion with Albert in search of adventures. It was
just then toward the end of the strawberry sea-
son and the beginning of the blueberry season.
The sweet wild strawberry, than which there is
nothing more delicious under the sun, betrayed
itself by its fragrance under the heather, and
when the boys found an open patch, about the
roots of a tree, where the berries grew in big
bunches, they shouted aloud and danced an
Indian war-dance from excess of joy, before
beginning to fill their mouths, their pails, and
their baskets. Fritz and Albert, who were the
champion pickers, had soon filled the tin pails
they had brought with them, and set to work
with great dispatch to make baskets of birch-
bark wherewith to carry off their surplus. There
were the great blueberry fields still to be ravaged;
and it seemed a pity not to pick some of the
fragrant sweet-brier, and lilies of the valley that
grew so abundantly among the birches and
alders. Sophy and Ingeborg went into ecstasy
over the nodding clusters of pretty, bell-shaped
flowers which, in Norway, grow wild in the
woods, and they picked their aprons full, again
and again, emptying them into one of Fritz's
birch-bark baskets. Of sweet-brier, too, and
the delicate little wood-stars there was no lack ;
and in the open glades they found some belated
violets with a shy little ghost of a fragrance that
stole into one's nostrils as a kind thought steals
into the heart.

Fritz and his manly comrades protested, of
course, against this " tomfoolery " with the flow-
ers; but as some indulgence must be granted
to the foibles of girls, they consented to assist
in the undignified task. A big heap of varie-
gated color — pink, white, blue, and green —
was piled up under a large, wide-spreading
pine, where Alvilda sat, like a fairy queen, glory-
ing in her perishable treasures. It was then
Fritz lost his patience, and demanded to know
whether it was not time now to stop this non-
sense and go in quest of something worth
wearying one's limbs for. As he had brought
fishing tackle and bait, he would propose a
little fishing expedition on a tarn, close by, and
if the girls did n't care to accompany him,
he would go alone with his trusty friends,

Robin Hood and the Gray Friar, and catch
enough to provide luncheon for the whole
army. This proposition was too tempting to be
resisted, and presently all the boys scampered
away through the underbrush, leaving the three
girls under the pine tree. Sophy spread a shawl
upon the ground for Alvilda to lie down upon ;
and herself drew a favorite novel from her pocket,
which she discussed in whispers with Ingeborg.
There were, indeed, the most delicious things in
this book : dreadful, black-hearted villains, with
black mustaches, who prowled about in all sorts
of disguises and lay in wait for unsuspecting
innocence; splendid, high-spirited heroes, with
blonde mustaches and nodding white plumes on
their helmets, who rescued guileless innocence
from the wiles of the villains, and subsequently
married it — and no end of delightful things
besides. Sophy soon lost all thought of her sis-
ter during this absorbing discussion, and Alvilda,
finding herself neglected, pouted a little and
dozed away into a sweet sleep.

In the mean while the boys were having great
fun down on the tarn; and being seized with a
ravenous appetite as their usual hour for
luncheon passed, they resolved to have a little
impromptu feast all by themselves before re-
turning to the girls. They had caught a dozen
fine trout and no end of perch, and their mouths
watered to test the flavor of the former on the
spot. They accordingly built an improvised
stove of flat stones, made a fire in it, split the
fish, and broiled them over the fire.

The trout in particular proved to have a superb
flavor, and Fritz, as a generous and magnanimous
freebooter, was dispensing the hospitality of the
woods with a royal hand. He forgot all about his
dear little sister in whose honor he was feasting,
and he forgot, too, that he had promised to return
in half an hour with his catch of fish. Sophy
and Ingeborg, having exhausted the delights
of the novel, began to grow hungry, and when an
hour had passed, they became impatient and, at
last, angry. They could hear the boys' shouts of
laughter in the distance, and they began to sus-
pect that the boys were lunching without them.
Now and then the blare of Fritz's trumpet was
vaguely audible, and the rumble of Charles's
drum.

" I really think, Ingeborg," said Sophy, " that

LITTLE ALVILDA.

those wretched boys have forgotten all about
us."

" I never could understand why boys were
created," observed Ingeborg.

" Well, anyway, I am hungry," ejaculated
Sophy.

" And I am ravenous ! — that is, I am not
averse to something to eat," echoed her friend.

" Suppose we go and find those graceless
scamps," suggested Sophy.

" Very well ; but what shall we do with Al-
vilda ? "

Alvilda, — to be sure, — what were they to do
with her ? Sophy felt a little pang of guilt as
her eyes fell upon the sweet, chubby face of her
sleeping sister.

" She is sleeping so soundly. It would be a
pity to waken her," she remarked doubtfully.
" What do you say ? "

" Why, nothing can happen to her here,"
said Ingeborg; "we shall only be gone fifteen
minutes, you know, and then we shall be back
with the boys."

" But suppose there were bears about here ;
then it might be dangerous to leave her ! "

" Yes, and suppose there were lions — and —
crocodiles," laughed Ingeborg.

This sally disposed of Sophy's scruples ; and
having thrown a jacket over Alvilda's feet and
kissed her on the cheek, she flung one arm
about her friend's waist and wandered away
with her in the direction from which the boys'
laughter was heard. It was not difficult to
find those young gentlemen, for they were en-
gaged in a lively wrangle as to which was the
rightful possessor of the surplus quantity of fish
which they could not devour. Fritz main-
tained that he, as the chieftain, had a just claim
to the proceeds of the labor of his vassals and
slaves, and the vassals and slaves loudly rebelled
and declared that they would never submit to
such injustice ; whereupon the chieftain mag-
nanimously declared that he would renounce
his rights and surrender the booty to be divided
by lot among his men-at-arms. It was at this
interesting point that the girls appeared upon
the scene, and the gallant freebooters dropped
their quarrel and undertook, somewhat shame-
facedly, to wait upon their fair guests. And as
the fair guests had rather unfashionable appe-

tites, after their long fast and vigorous exercise,
the fifteen minutes became half an hour and
the half hour began to round itself out to a
whole hour, before their consciences smote them
and they thought of Alvilda who was asleep
under the big pine tree.

And now let us see what befell little Alvilda.
She slept quietly for about twenty minutes after
her sister left her; and she would have slept
longer if something very extraordinary had not
happened. She was dreaming that the big
mastiff, Hector, at home in the parsonage, was
insisting upon kissing her, and she was struggling
to get away from his cold, wet nose, but could
not. A strange, wild odor was filling the air,
and it penetrated into Alvilda's dream and
made her toss uneasily. There was Hector
again, with his cold, wet nose, and he was blow-
ing his warm breath into her face. She tried
to scold him, but not a sound could she pro-
duce. In her annoyance she struck out with
her hand and hit something warm and furry.
But here consciousness broke through the filmy
webs of slumber ; she opened her eyes wide
and raised herself on her elbow. There stood
Hector, indeed, and stared straight into her
eyes. But how big he was ! And how his ears
had shrunk and his fur grown ! Alvilda rubbed
her eyes to make sure that she was awake. She
stared once more with a dim apprehension, and
saw, — yes, there could be no doubt of it, — she
saw that it was not Hector. It was an enor-
mous, big brown beast, that stood snuffing at
her; it was, perhaps, even a dangerous beast,
which might take it into its head to hurt her.
It was, — yes, now she was quite sure of it, — it
was a big brown bear !

The little girl's first impulse was to cry out
for help. But it was so strangely still about her.
Where were her brothers and sister, Fritz and
his freebooters, Sophy and her friend Ingeborg?
It could notbe possible that they had left her alone
here in the forest. She threw frightened glances
about her; but wherever she looked she saw
nothing but the long, solemn colonnades of
brown pine trunks. And there, right in front of
her, stood the bear, staring at her with his small
black eyes. It occurred to her, even amid
her fright, that she must try to make friends
with this bear, in which case, perhaps, he might

134

LITTLE ALVILDA.

[Dec.

consent not to eat her. She knew from her fairy-
tales that there were good bears and bad bears,
and she devoutly hoped that her new acquain-
tance might prove to belong to the order of good
bears. So, with a quaking heart and a voice that
shook, she arose, and putting her hand on the
bear's neck, she exclaimed with pathetic friend-
liness : " I know you very well, Mr. Bear, but
you don't know me. I know you from my
picture-book. You are the good bear who
carried the Princess on your back, away from
the Trold's castle."

The bear was apparently not displeased to
know that he had made so favorable an impres-
sion, though he wished to make it plain that he
could n't be bamboozled by flattery. For lie
shook his great shaggy head and gave a low,
good-natured grumble. And just at that mo-
ment he caught sight of the big basket of straw-
berries that stood under the tree. And turning
toward it, he slowly lifted his right fore paw,
and, putting it straight into the basket, deliber-
ately upset it.

" Why, Bear, what have you been doing ? "
cried Alvilda, half forgetting her fear. "Why,
don't you know, those are Fritz's berries? — and
he will be so angry when he gets back. For
Fritz, you know, is quite high-tempered. Now,
if you '11 eat my berries, you may have them,
and welcome; but, dear Mr. Bear, do let Fritz's
alone."

It may be surmised that the bear was not
greatly moved by this argument. He calmly
went on eating Fritz's berries, which were scat-
tered all over the ground, and grumbled now
and then contentedly, as if to say that he found
the flavor of the berries excellent. He paid no
attention whatever to Alvilda's own little basket,
which she had placed invitingly before his
nose ; but, when he had finished Fritz's berries,
he selected the next biggest basket and upset
that in the same deliberate fashion in which he
had upturned the first one.

" Why, now, Mr. Bear, I don't think you are
good, after all," said Alvilda, when she saw her
friend make havoc among the berry-baskets.
" Don't you know you '11 get stomach-ache, if you
eat so many berries? — and then you '11 have to
go to bed in your den and take nasty medicine."

But, seeing that the bear was no more affected

by self-interest than he was by regard for other
people's property, Alvilda, in her zeal, put her
arms about his neck and tried to drag him away.
She found, however, that she was no match for
Bruin in strength, and therefore sorrowfully made
up her mind to abandon him to his own devices.
" Now, Bear," she said, seating herself again un-
der the tree, and quite forgetting that she had
once been frightened, "if you '11 behave your-
self, I am going to make you a pretty wreath of
flowers. Then, Mr. Bear, won't you look hand-
some when you get home to your family ? "

And, delighted at this vision of the bear return-
ing to his astonished family decorated with a
wreath, she clapped her hands, emptied a basket
of wild flowers in her lap, and began to tie them
together. Lilies of the valley, she feared, Bruin
would scarcely appreciate ; but brier-roses, vio-
lets, and columbines, she thought, would not be
beyond his taste; and adding here and there a
sprig of whortleberries and of flowering heather
to give solidity to her wreath, she tied it securely
about the bear's neck and laughed aloud with
joy at his appearance. Bruin had obviously a
notion that this was a kindly act, for he suddenly
rose up on his hind legs and with a pleased
grumble made an attempt to look at himself.

" Oh, my dear Bruin," cried Alvilda, " you
look perfectly lovely ! Your family won't recog-
nize you when they see you again."

The bear lifted up his head and, as his eyes
met Alvilda's, there was a gleam in them of mild
astonishment, and, as the little girl imagined, of
gratitude. She laughed and talked on merrily
for some minutes, while her friend sat down on
his haunches and continued to gaze at her with
the same stolid wonder. But then, suddenly,
while Alvilda was making another wreath for
Bruin to take home to his wife, the blare of
a trumpet re-echoed through the woods, and
laughing voices were heard approaching. The
bear pricked up his ears, sniffed the air suspi-
ciously, and waddled slowly away between the
tree trunks.

" Why, no, Bear," Alvilda cried after him ;
" why don't you stay and meet Fritz and Sophy
and the judge's Albert ? "

But the bear, instead of returning, broke into
a gentle trot, and she heard the dry branches
creak beneath his tread as he vanished in the

LITTLE ALVILDA.

l 35

underbrush. And just as she lost the last glimpse
of him, Fritz and Sophy and the whole party of
children came rushing up to her, excusing them-
selves for their absence, calling her all manner
of pet names, and saying that they had hoped
she had not been frightened. " Oh, no, not at
all," answered Alvilda ; " I have had such a
nice bear here, who has kept me company. But
I am so sorry he has eaten up all your berries."

The children thought at first that she must be
joking; but seeing all the baskets upset, and
smelling the strong, wild odor that was yet linger-
ing in the air, they turned pale and stood gazing
at each other in speechless fright. But Sophy
burst into tears, hugged her little sister to her
bosom, and cried :

" Oh, how can you ever forgive me, Alvilda ?
It is all my fault ! I promised Papa not to
leave you."

It was of no use that Alvilda kept repeating :
" But, Sophy, he was not a bad bear. He was
a nice bear, and he did n't hurt me at all."

There could be no more berrying after that.
The girls were in haste to be gone, and the val-
iant freebooters had no desire to detain them.
They picked up their belongings as fast as they
could and hurried down through the forest, each
taking his turn, as before, in carrying Alvilda.
But they were neither knights nor princesses nor
freebooters any more. They were only fright-
ened boys and girls.

When they arrived at the parsonage about
five o'clock in the afternoon, they were too tired,
breathless, and demoralized to care much what
became of them. Sophy took upon herself to
tell her father what had happened. She was
prepared for the worst, and in her remorse would
have accepted cheerfully any punishment. But
imagine her astonishment when her father ut-
tered no word of reproach but folded Alvilda
in his arms and thanked God that he had his
little girl once more safe and sound.

Now, if my story had ended here, nobody
would have been astonished ; but the most as-
tonishing part of it is what remains to be told.
Six months after Alvilda's encounter with the

good bear, when a foot of snow covered the
ground, two of the parson's lumbermen, who
were famous hunters, returned from a week's so-
journ in the woods. Fritz, Albert, and Alvilda,
bundled up to their ears in scarfs and overcoats,
were sliding down the hill behind the stables,
when they saw the two lumbermen, sitting
astride of some big, dark object, coasting down
toward them. '• Hurrah ! " cried Fritz, waving
his cap to them, " there are Nils and Thorsten !
And they have killed something too."

Nils and Thorsten, returning the greeting of
the young master, slackened their speed and
stopped beside the children. It was a big, brown
he-bear they had on their sled — a regular
monster; and they were not a little proud of
having killed him. His tongue was hanging
out of his mouth, and there was a small hole in
his breast from which the blood was trickling
down on the snow.

"Je-miny," exclaimed Fritz admiringly, plun-
ging his fist into the beast's dense fur, " ain't he
a stunner ? But what is this ? — I declare if he
has n't a wreath of withered flowers about his
neck ! "

Alvilda, who had timidly drawn near, started
forward at these words and, letting her sled go,
stared at the dead animal.

" Why, it is my bear ! " she cried, bursting into
tears, " it is my dear, good bear ! "

And before any one could prevent her, she
had flung her arms about the bear's neck and
buried her face in his fur; and there she lay
weeping as if her heart would break.

" Oh, they have been bad to you," she sobbed;
" and you were so good to me ; and you have
worn my wreath all this time."

The two hunters pulled the sled down into
the court-yard, Alvilda still weeping over her
dead playmate. And when her father came
out and lifted her up in his arms, she yet re-
mained inconsolable, lamenting the fate of her
good bear. But from the animal's neck the
pastor cut the withered wreath, and it hangs
now on the wall in Alvilda's room as a memento
of her ursine friend and the love she bore him.

'HEN Independence
was declared, in 1776,
and the United States
of America appeared
among the powers of
the earth, the con-
tinent beyond the
Alleghanies was one
unbroken wilderness;
and the buffaloes, the
first animals to vanish
when the wilderness
is settled, roved up to
the crests of the mountains which mark the
western boundaries of Pennsylvania, Virginia,
and the Carolinas. They were plentiful in
what are now the States of Ohio, Kentucky,
and Tennessee. But by the beginning of the
present century they had been driven beyond
the Mississippi ; and for the next eighty years
they formed one of the most distinctive and
characteristic features of existence on the great
plains. Their numbers were countless — incred-
ible. In vast herds of hundreds of thousands of
individuals, they roamed from the Saskatchewan
to the Rio Grande and westward to the Rocky
Mountains. They furnished all the means of
livelihood to the tribes of Horse Indians, and
to the curious population of French Metis, or
Half-breeds, on the Red River, as well as those
dauntless and arch typical wanderers, the white
hunters and trappers. Their numbers slowly
diminished ; but the decrease was very gradual
until after the Civil War. They were not de-
stroyed by the settlers, but by the railways and
by the skin hunters.

After the ending of the Civil War, the work of
constructing transcontinental railway lines was

pushed forward with the utmost vigor. These
supplied cheap and indispensable, but hitherto
wholly lacking, means of transportation to the
hunters ; and at the same time the demand for
buffalo robes and hides became very great,
while the enormous numbers of the beasts, and
the comparative ease with which they were
slaughtered, attracted throngs of adventurers.
The result was such a slaughter of big game as
the world had never before seen ; never before
were so many large animals of one species de-
stroyed in so short a time. Several million buf-
faloes were slain. In fifteen years from the
time the destruction fairly began, the great
herds were exterminated. In all probability
there are not now, all told, a thousand head of
wild buffaloes on the American continent; and
no herd of a hundred individuals has been in
existence since 1S84.

The first great break followed the building of
the Union Pacific Railway. All the buffaloes
of the middle region were then destroyed, and
the others were then split into two vast sets of
herds, the northern and the southern. The
latter were destroyed first, about 1878; the
former not until 18S3. My own experience
with buffaloes was obtained in the latter year,
among small bands and scattered individuals,
near my ranch on the Little Missouri ; I have
related it elsewhere. But two of my relatives
were more fortunate, and took part in the chase
of these lordly beasts when the herds still dark-
ened the prairie as far as the eye could see.

During the first two months of 1877, my
brother Elliott, then a lad not seventeen years
old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of
the Staked Plains in northern Texas. He was
thus in at the death of the southern herds, for

136

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

137

all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed
within two years of this time.

My brother was with my cousin, John Roose-
velt, and they went out on the range with six
other adventurers — a German- American, a
Scotchman who had been in the Confederate
cavalry and afterward in Maximilian's Mexican
body-guard, and four Irishmen. It was a party
of just such young men as frequently drift to the
frontier. All were short of cash, and all were
hardy, vigorous fellows eager for excitement
and adventure. My brother was much the
youngest of the party, and the least experi-
enced ; but he was well-grown, strong and
healthy, and very fond of boxing, wrestling, run-
ning, riding, and shooting ; moreover, he had
served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and
turkeys. Their mess-kit, ammunition, bedding,
and provisions were carried in two prairie
wagons, each drawn by four horses. In addition
to the teams they had six saddle-animals — all
of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs. Three or
four dogs, setters and half-bred greyhounds,
trotted along behind the wagons. Each man
took his turn for two days as teamster and cook ;
and there were always two with the wagons,
or camp, as the case might be, while the other
six were off hunting, usually in couples. The
expedition was undertaken partly for sport and
partly with the hope of profit ; for, after pur-
chasing the horses and wagons, none of the
party had any money left, and they were forced
to rely upon selling skins and hides and, when
near the forts, meat.

They started on January 2d, and shaped their
course for the head-waters of the Salt Fork of
the Brazos, the center of abundance for the
great buffalo herds. During the first few days
they were in the outskirts of the settled country,
and shot only small game — quail and prairie
fowl ; then they began to kill turkey, deer, and
antelope. These they " swapped " for flour and
feed, at the ranches or squalid, straggling fron-
tier towns. On several occasions the hunters
were lost, spending the night out in the open, or
sleeping at a ranch if one was found. Both
towns and ranches were filled with rough cus-
tomers ; all of my brother's companions were
muscular, hot-headed fellows ; and as a con-
sequence they were involved in several savage
Vol. XVII.— 17.

" free fights," in which, fortunately, nobody was
seriously hurt. My brother kept a very brief
diary, the entries being fairly startling from their
conciseness. A number of times, the mention
of their arrival, either at a halting-place, a little
village, or a rival buffalo-camp is followed by
the laconic remark, " big fight," or " big row " ;
but once they evidently concluded discretion to
be the better part of valor, the entry for January
20th being, u On the road — passed through Bel-
knap — too lively, so kept on to the Brazos —
very late." The buffalo-camps in particular
were very jealous of one another, each party
regarding itself as having exclusive right to the
range it was the first to find ; and on several
occasions this feeling came near involving my
brother and his companions in serious trouble.

While slowly driving the heavy wagons to
the hunting-grounds they suffered the usual
hardships of plains travel. The weather, as in
most Texas winters, alternated between the ex-
tremes of heat and cold. There had been little
rain ; in consequence water was scarce. Twice
they were forced to cross wild, barren wastes,
where the pools had dried up, and they suffered
terribly from thirst. On the first occasion the
horses were in good condition, and they traveled
steadily, with only occasional short halts, for over
thirty-six hours, by which time they were across
the waterless country. The journal reads : "Jan-
uary 29th. — Big hunt — no water and we left
Quinn's blockhouse this morning 3 a. m. —
on the go all night — hot. January 28th. — No
water — hot — at seven we struck water and by
eight Stinking Creek — grand 'hurrah.'" On
the second occasion, the horses were weak and
traveled slowly, so the party went forty-eight
hours without drinking. "February 19th. — Pulled
on twenty-one miles — trail bad — freezing night,
no water, and wolves after our fresh meat. 20th.
— ■ Made nineteen miles over prairie ; again only
mud, no water, freezing hard — frightful thirst.
21st. — Thirty miles to Clear Fork, fresh water."
These entries were hurriedly jotted down at the
time, by a boy who deemed it unmanly to make
any especial note of hardship or suffering; but
every plainsman will understand the real agony
implied in working hard for two nights, one day,
and portions of two others, without water, even
in cool weather. During the last few miles the

138

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

[Dec.

staggering horses were only just able to drag
the lightly loaded wagon, — for they had but
one with them at the time, — while the men
plodded along in sullen silence, their mouths
so parched that they could hardly utter a word.
My own hunting and ranching were done in the
North where there is more water ; so I have
never had a similar experience. Once I took
a team in thirty-six hours across a country
where there was no water ; but by good luck it
rained heavily in the night, so that the horses
had plenty of wet grass, and I caught the rain
in my slicker, and so had enough water for my-
self. Personally, I have but once been as long
as twenty-six hours without water.

The party pitched their permanent camp in a
canon of the Brazos known as Canon Blanco.
The last few days of their journey they traveled
beside the river through a veritable hunter's
paradise. The drought had forced all the ani-
mals to come to the larger watercourses, and
the country was literally swarming with game.
Every day, and all day long, the wagons trav-
eled through the herds of antelopes that grazed
on every side, while, whenever they approached
the canon brink, bands of deer started from
the timber that fringed the river's course ; often,
even the deer wandered out on the prairie with
the antelopes. Nor was the game shy ; for the
hunters, both red and white, followed only the
buffaloes until the huge, shaggy herds were de-
stroyed, and the smaller beasts were in conse-
quence but little molested.

Once my brother shot five antelopes from a
single stand, when the party were short of fresh
venison ; he was out of sight and to leeward,
and the antelopes seemed confused rather than
alarmed at the rifle-reports and the fall of their
companions. As was to be expected where game
was so plenty, wolves and coyotes also abounded.
At night they surrounded the camp, wailing and
howling in a kind of shrieking chorus through-
out the hours of darkness ; one night they came
up so close that the frightened horses had to be
hobbled and guarded. On another occasion a
large wolf actually crept into camp, where he
was seized by the dogs, and the yelling, writh-
ing knot of combatants rolled over one of the
sleepers; finally, the long-toothed prowler man-
aged to shake himself loose, and vanished in the

gloom. One evening they were almost as much
startled by a visit of a different kind. They were
just finishing supper when an Indian stalked
suddenly and silently out of the surrounding
darkness, squatted down in the circle of fire-
light, remarked gravely, " Me Tonk," and began
helping himself from the stew. He belonged to
the friendly tribe of Tonkaways, so his hosts
speedily recovered their equanimity ; as for him,
he had never lost his, and he sat eating by the
fire until there was literally nothing left to eat.
The panic caused by his appearance was natural;
for at that time the Comanches were a scourge
to the buffalo-hunters, ambushing them and
raiding their camps ; and several bloody fights
had taken place.

Their camp had been pitched near a deep
pool or water-hole. On both sides the bluffs
rose like walls, and where they had crumbled
and lost their sheerness, the vast buffalo herds,
passing and repassing for countless genera-
tions, had worn furrowed trails so deep that
the backs of the beasts were but little above
the surrounding soil. In the bottom, and in
places along the crests of the cliffs that hemmed
in the canon-like valley, there were groves of
tangled trees, tenanted by great flocks of wild
turkeys. Once my brother made two really
remarkable shots at a pair of these great birds.
It was at dusk, and they were flying directly
overhead from one cliff to the other. He had
in his hand a thirty-eight-caliber Ballard rifle,
and, as the gobblers winged their way heavily
by, he brought them both down with two suc-
cessive bullets. This was of course mainly a
piece of mere luck ; but it meant good shooting,
too. The Ballard was a very accurate, handy
little weapon ; it belonged to me, and was the
first rifle I ever owned or used. With it I had
once killed a deer, the only specimen of large
game I had then shot ; and I presented the
rifle to my brother when he went to Texas. In
our happy ignorance we deemed it quite good
enough for buffalo or anything else ; but out on
the plains my brother soon found himself forced
to procure a heavier and more deadly weapon.

When camp was pitched the horses were
turned loose to graze and refresh themselves
after their trying journey, during which they
had lost flesh wofully. They were watched

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

139

and tended by the two men who were always
left in camp, and, save on rare occasions, were
only used to haul in the buffalo-hides. The
camp-guards for the time being acted as cooks ;
and, though coffee and flour both ran short
and finally gave out, fresh meat of every kind
was abundant. The camp was never without
buffalo-beef, deer and antelope venison, wild
turkeys, prairie-chickens, quails, ducks, and rab-
bits. The birds were simply " potted," as occa-
sion required ; when the quarry was deer or
antelope, the hunters took the dogs with them
to run down the wounded animals. But almost
the entire attention of the hunters was given
to the buffalo. After an evening spent in loung-
ing round the camp-fire, and a sound night's
sleep, wrapped in robes and blankets, they
would get up before daybreak, snatch a hurried
breakfast, and start off in couples through the
chilly dawn. The great beasts were very plenti-
ful ; in the first day's hunt, twenty were slain ;
but the herds were restless and ever on the
move. Sometimes they would be seen right by
the camp, and again it would need an all-day's
tramp to find them. There was no difficulty in
spying them — the chief trouble with forest
game ; for on the prairie a buffalo makes no
effort to hide, and its black, shaggy bulk looms
up as far as the eye can see. Sometimes they
were found in small parties of three or four
individuals, sometimes in bands of about two
hundred, and again in great herds of many
thousand ; and solitary old bulls, expelled from
the herds, were common. If on broken land,
among hills and ravines, there was not much
difficulty in approaching from the leeward ; for,
though the sense of smell" in the buffalo is very
acute, they do not see well at a distance through
their overhanging frontlets of coarse and matted
hair. If, as was generally the case, they were
out on the open, rolling prairie, the stalking was
far more difficult. Every hollow, every earth
hummock and sagebush had to be used as
cover. The hunter wriggled through the grass
flat on his face, pushing himself along for per-
haps a quarter of a mile by his toes and fingers,
heedless of the spiny cactus. When near enough
to the huge, unconscious quarry the hunter
began firing, still keeping himself carefully con-
cealed. If the smoke was blown away by the

wind, and if the buffaloes caught no glimpse of
the assailant, they would often stand motionless
and stupid until many of their number had been
slain ; the hunter being careful not to fire too
high, aiming just behind the shoulder, about a
third of the way up the body, that his bullet might
go through the lungs. Sometimes, even after
they saw the man, they would act as if confused
and panic-struck, huddling up together and
staring at the smoke puffs — but generally they
were oft" at a lumbering gallop as soon as they
had an idea of the point of danger. When
once started, they ran for many miles before
halting, and their pursuit on foot was extremely
laborious.

One morning my cousin and brother had
been left in camp as guards. They were sitting,
idly warming themselves in the first sunbeams,
when their attention was sharply drawn to four
buffaloes who were coming to the pool to drink.
The beasts came down a game trail, a deep rut
in the bluff, fronting where they were sitting, and
they did not dare stir for fear of being discov-
ered. The buffaloes walked into the pool, and,
after drinking their fill, stood for some time with
the water running out of their mouths, idly lash-
ing their sides with their short tails, enjoying the
bright warmth of the early sunshine ; then, with
much splashing and the gurgling of soft mud,
they left the pool and clambered up the bluff
with unwieldy agility. As soon as they turned,
my brother and cousin ran for their rifles ; but
before they got back the buffaloes had crossed
the bluff crest. Climbing after them, the two
hunters found, when they reached the sum-
mit, that their game, instead of halting, had
struck straight off across the prairie at a slow
lope, doubtless intending to rejoin the herd they
had left. After a moment's consultation, the
men went in pursuit, excitement overcoming
their knowledge that they ought not, by rights,
to leave the camp. They struck a steady trot,
following the animals by sight until they passed
over a knoll, and then trailing them. Where
the grass was long, as it was for the first four or
five miles, this was a work of no difficulty, and
they did not break their gait, only glancing now
and then at the trail. As the sun rose and the
day became warm, their breathing grew quicker;
and the sweat rolled oft" their faces as they ran

140

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

[Dec.

across the rough prairie sward, up and down the
long inclines, now and then shifting their heavy
rifles from one shoulder to the other. But they
were in good training, and they did not have
to halt. At last they reached stretches of bare

' THEY WERE IN GOOD TRAINING, AND THEY DID NOT HAVE TO HALT

ground, sun-baked and grassless, where the trail
grew dim ; and here they had to go very slowly,
carefully examining the faint dents and marks
made in the soil by the heavy hoofs, and unrav-
eling the trail from the mass of old foot-marks.
It was tedious work, but it enabled them to
completely recover their breath by the time that
they again struck the grass land ; and but a
few hundred yards from its edge, in a slight hol-
low, they saw the four buffaloes just entering a
herd of fifty or sixty that were scattered out
grazing. The herd paid no attention to the new-
comers, and these immediately began to feed
greedily. After a whispered consultation, the
two hunters crept back, and made a long circle
that brought them well to leeward of the herd,
in line with a slight rise in the ground. They
then crawled up to this rise and, peering through
the tufts of tall, rank grass, saw the unconscious
beasts a hundred and twenty-five or fifty yards
away. They fired together, each mortally wound-
ing his animal, and then, rushing in as the herd
halted in confusion, and following them as they
ran, impeded by numbers, hurry, and panic,
they eventually got three more.

On another occasion, the same two hunters
nearly met with a frightful death, being over-

taken by a vast herd of stampeded buffaloes. All
animals that go in herds are subject to these
instantaneous attacks of uncontrollable terror,
under the influence of which they become per-
fectly mad, and rush headlong in dense masses
on any form of death.
Horses, and more
especially cattle, often
suffer from stampedes ;
it is a danger against
which the cowboys
are compelled to be
perpetually on guard.
A band of stampeded
horses, sweeping in
mad terror up a val-
ley, will dash against
a rock or tree with
such violence as to
leave several dead ani-
mals at its base, while
the survivors race on
without halting ; they
will overturn and destroy tents and wagons, and
a man on foot caught in the rush has but a small
chance for his life. A buffalo stampede is much
worse — or rather was much worse, in the old
days — because of the great weight and im-
mense numbers of the beasts, who, in a fury
of heedless terror, plunged over cliffs and into
rivers, and bore down whatever was in their
path. On the occasion in question, my brother
and cousin were on their way homeward. They
were just mounting one of the long, low swells
into which the prairie was broken when they
heard a low, muttering, rumbling noise, like
far-off thunder. It grew steadily louder, and,
not knowing what it meant, they hurried for-
ward to the top of the rise. As they reached it,
they stopped short in terror and amazement, for
before them the whole prairie was black with
madly rushing buffaloes.

Afterward they learned that another couple
of hunters, four or five miles off, had fired into
and stampeded a large herd. This herd, in its
rush, gathered others, all thundering along to-
gether in uncontrollable and increasing panic.
The surprised hunters were far away from
any broken ground or other place of refuge ;
while the vast herd of huge, plunging, maddened

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

141

beasts was charging straight down on them not
a quarter of a mile distant. Down they came ! —
thousands upon thousands, their front extending
a mile in breadth, while the earth shook beneath
their thunderous gallop, and as they came
closer, their shaggy frontlets loomed dimly
through the columns of dust thrown up from
the dry soil. The two hunters knew that their
only hope for life was to split the herd, which,
though it had so broad a front, was not very
deep. If they failed they would inevitably be
trampled to death.

Waiting until the beasts were in close range,
they opened a rapid fire from their heavy
breech-loading rifles, yelling at the top of their
voices. For a moment the result seemed doubt-
ful. The line thundered steadily down on them ;

from their foes in front, strove desperately to
edge away from the dangerous neighborhood;
the shouts and shots were redoubled ; the hunt-
ers were almost choked by the cloud of dust
through which they could see the stream of dark
huge bodies passing within rifle-length on either
side ; and in a moment the peril was over, and
the two men were left alone on the plain,
unharmed, though with their nerves terribly
shaken. The herd careered on toward the
horizon, save five individuals who had been
killed or disabled by the shots.

On another occasion, when my brother was
out with one of his Irish friends, they fired at
a small herd containing an old bull ; the bull
charged the smoke, and the whole herd followed
him. Probably they were simply stampeded,

f ' T Ms^ if }A

— fct

Sjfjil

' Mimmcto

A THRILLING EXPERIENCE OF LIFE ON THE PLAINS.

then it swayed violently, as two or three of the
brutes immediately in their front fell beneath the
bullets, while the neighbors made violent efforts
to press off sideways. Then a narrow wedge-
shaped rift appeared in the line, and widened
as it came up closer, and the buffaloes, shrinking

SPLITTING A HERD OF STAMPEDED

BUFFALOES.

and had no hostile intention ; at any rate, after
the death of their leader, they rushed by without
doing any damage.

But buffaloes sometimes charged with the
utmost determination, and were then dangerous
antagonists. My cousin, a very hardy and

14'.

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

[Dec.

TAKING HIDES AI-'TER A HUNT

resolute hunter, had a narrow escape from a
wounded cow which he followed up a steep
bluff or sand cliff. Just as he reached the sum-
mit, he was charged, and was only saved by the
sudden appearance of his dog, which distracted

THE GREAT BEAST CAME CHASHING TO THE EARTH

the cow's attention. He thus escaped with only
a tumble and a few bruises.

My brother also came in for a charge, while
killing the biggest bull that was slain by any of

the party. He was out alone, and saw a small
herd of cows and calves at some distance, with
a huge bull among them, towering above them
like a giant. There was
no break in the ground,
nor any tree nor bush
near them, but by mak-
ing a half-circle, my
brother managed to
creep up against the
wind behind a slight
roll in the prairie sur-
face, until he was within
seventy-five yards of the
grazing and unconsci-
ous beasts. There were
some cows and calves
between him and the
bull, and he had to wait
some moments before
they shifted position as
the herd grazed onward
and gave him a fair shot;
in the interval they had
moved so far forward that he was in plain
view. His first bullet struck just behind the
shoulder; the herd started and looked around,
but the bull merely lifted his head and took a

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

143

,-5Wji;' |H| |=

A WAR PARTY OF COMANCHES " JUMPING*' A HUNTER'S CAMP.

step forward, his tail curled up over his back.
The next bullet likewise struck fair, nearly in
the same place, telling with a loud "pack!"
against the thick hide, and making the dust fly
up from the matted hair. Instantly the great
bull wheeled and charged in headlong anger,
while the herd fled in the opposite direction.
On the bare prairie, with no spot of refuge, it
was useless to try to escape, and the hunter,
with reloaded rifle, waited until the bull was
not far off, then drew up his weapon and fired.
Either he was nervous, or the bull at the moment
bounded over some obstacle, for the ball went
a little wild ; nevertheless, by good luck, it broke
a fore leg, and the great beast came crashing to
the earth, and was slain before it could struggle
to its feet.

Two days after this event, a war
party of Comanches swept down ^*W
along the river. They "jumped" rM

a neighboring camp, killing one man and wound-
ing two more, and at the same time ran off all
but three of the horses belonging to our eight
adventurers. With the remaining three horses
and one wagon they set out homeward. The
march was hard and tedious; they lost their
way and were in jeopardy from quicksands
and cloudbursts; they suffered from thirst and
cold, their shoes gave out and their feet were
lamed by cactus spines. At last they reached
Fort Sniflin in safety, and great was their raven-
ous rejoicing when they procured some bread
— for during the final fortnight of the hunt they
had been without flour or vegetables of any kind,
or even coffee, and had subsisted on fresh meat
" straight." Nevertheless, it was a very healthy,
as well as a very pleasant and exciting experi-
ence ; and I doubt if any of those who took
part in it will ever forget their great buffalo-hunt
on the Brazos.

Chapter I.

"A stepmother ? How horrid ! "

" Horrid ! — I should think so."

'• What is it that is horrid, girls ? " asked an-
other girl, who, in passing, had caught only the
last sentence.

" Why, about May Bartlett, you know."

" No, I don't know ; what is it ? "

" She has a stepmother."

"No!"

"Yes, yes," cried the first two speakers, — the
Macy sisters, — Joanna and Elsie.

" But when, when did it happen, this step-
mother business ? " exclaimed the girl to whom
they were telling the news. " I saw May in
vacation, and she did n't lisp a word of it."

" But you have n't seen her since you came
back ? "

"Well, no; as this is my first hour back, almost.
But tell me when the stepmother was brought
on the scene ? "

" A week ago; that is, Mr. Bartlett was mar-

ried to her then ; but he has n't brought her
home yet; they are traveling."

" Who told you ? "

" Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper. I went round
yesterday to see if May was at home."

" And you saw May ? "

"No; she was n't expected until the late
afternoon train."

" And she did n't know anything about the
stepmother until a week ago ? "

"Two weeks ago; a week before the marriage."

" Well, I call that downright cruel. If it was
my father ! " And Cathy Bond stamped a little
foot on the floor with an emphasis that spoke
unutterable things. Two or three more girls
who had just entered the school-room came up
at this demonstration with a " What 's the matter,
Cathy ? " And the matter was told over again
with a new chorus of " ohs " and " ahs " and
" poor Mays." There was only one disagreeing
voice — a soft little voice that broke into the
" ohs " and " ahs," saying : " Stepmothers are
very nice sometimes. I have a cousin — "

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

145

" Nice!" cried Cathy, and then directly went
off in a flow of wild talk, a string of stories all
going to show that stepmothers were anything
but nice.

At the first hint of a pause, the little soft voice
began again :

" I have a cousin — " but Cathy had mounted
her hobby-horse of prejudice, and flashed out:

" Oh, bother your cousin, Susy Morris; I know
two girls intimately, who have stepmothers, and
they can't do anything, not anything, they want
to do ! "

" Who, the stepmothers ? " asked Joanna
slyly.

"No; the girls, of course," answered Cathy
rather crossly ; " and they used to have every-
thing, and do just exactly as they pleased. Oh,
you need n't talk to me about stepmothers ; they
interfere between the fathers and children, and
are a meddling, selfish set."

As Cathy paused to take breath, Susy promptly
struck in with, " I have a cousin — " But a
shout of laughter interrupted, and Joanna Macy
repeated, with merry mockery, " I have acousin " ;
then, turning and clutching Susy in a swift em-
brace, she cried out :

" Oh, you dear, queer, funny little thing with
your running chorus, ' I have a cousin.' But
tell us about her ; come, Susy has the floor —
Susy 's going to tell us about the cousin. If
Cathy interrupts, we '11 put her out. Now, Susy,
begin — ' I have a cousin.' "

Susy blushed a little, but without any sign of
annoyance unhesitatingly took up the words,
" I have a cousin," and went on with her
story.

It was a sweet little story of kindness and
comfort and happiness brought into a lonely
home to a lonely child, by a sweet, kind, good
woman.

But it did not make the impression it ought
to have made upon the girl listeners, for Cathy's
stormy talk of injustice and cruelty had blown
into their minds a tangle of wild thoughts, just
as a storm in nature blows all the wild weeds
and sticks and stones into a tangle of dust and
dirt that confuses and blinds one.

Susy, who appeared so slow and placid, had a
keen perception of some things. Her mind was
like a little clear lake through which she seemed
Vol. XVII.— 18.

to look and see the truth. Through this clear
little lake she now looked and saw that not one
of these girls, not even Joanna whom she spe-
cially loved, received her story with much belief.
It was not that they thought she was willfully
telling what was not true, but they were saying
to themselves :

" Oh, that is only Susy's easy, pleasant way of
taking people. Susy does n't understand." But
Susy did understand more than they imagined,
and it was out of this understanding that she
started up suddenly with a quicker motion than
was common with her, and in a quicker tone
cried out :

" My father says that prejudice makes people
deaf and blind." She paused a second, gave a
short sigh, and dropping into her ordinary man-
ner, and in her little, soft, drawling voice, she
added, " If 't would only make 'em dumb 't
would be all right."

The girls were used to Susy's wise speeches,
spoken in that soft voice of hers, and with a curi-
ous twist to the letter r, which she could n't pro-
nounce without giving to it a half sound of w,
and they generally laughed, not at the speeches
alone, but at the quaint combination of the
speeches and Susy together. As a matter of
habit they laughed now, but Joanna had caught
the spirit of the speech, and she followed the
laugh by saying :

" Susy is right; prejudice does make us deaf
and blind, and it is a pity we could n't be dumb
too, instead of talking such stuff! What do we
know really about stepmothers ? "

" We know what everybody has always said,"
struck in Cathy.

" Everybody is always saying everything."

" But there are the Longley girls — my two
friends I told you of."

" And there is Susy's cousin that 's the other
side. I '11 set that against the Longlegs, or what-
ever is their name."

" Well, I sha'n't. I shall never believe in step-
mothers ; I know — "

A quick "hush" from Joanna arrested Cathy's
sentence. She looked up. They all looked up,
and there was May Bartlett, not three feet away !
How long had she been there? How much had
she heard ? Perhaps she had just come in and
had heard nothing. But she was standing at her

146

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Dec.

desk, and her books were unstrapped and set in
order. She must have heard something in this
time. Joanna could have stamped with vex-
ation at herself, and at the others. Oh, why,
why, had she — had they all — been so careless ?
But something must be done. Somebody must
go forward and speak as if nothing had hap-
pened. Joanna started on this errand, but
Cathy was before her, and in the next moment,
flinging her arms about May, was saying in an
impressive, pitying accent :

" Oh, May, we have heard all about it, and
we are so sorry."

May Bartlett was a proud girl, who generally
held her private affairs in a good deal of reserve,
but this sudden demonstration at this time was
too much for her self-control, and she burst into
tears. Joanna could have beaten Cathy. Why
could n't she have greeted May as if nothing
had happened ? But that was just like Cathy
to make a scene.

The girls came forward awkwardly after this,
and there was a general uncomfortable time,
until Susy suddenly burst out in her odd little
way :

" Oh, May 's got a straight bang ! "

The girls giggled, Joanna caught Susy in a
little hug, and the tragic atmosphere was re-
lieved.

Chapter II.

A week later, May Bartlett was standing at
the parlor window waiting for her father and his
new wife, her stepmother.

"Why don't you go to the depot to meet
them?" asked Mrs. Marks.

May had colored up angrily at this question,
and a hot rush of tears had blinded her eyes as
she turned away without answering. But it was a
natural question for Mrs. Marks to ask, for May
had been in the habit of meeting her father at
the pretty little suburban station almost every
afternoon on his return from the city. " But
meet them at the depot ! How could Mrs.
Marks speak of such a thing," the girl thought
indignantly.

Tick, tack, tick, tack, went the little cathedral
clock on the mantel. In fifteen minutes the
train would be in, and in five, ten minutes more
the carriage would be at the door, and then —

and then — the tears that May had tried to keep
under control suddenly overflowed, as she im-
agined the change that was coming. Eight
weeks ago, when she had gone away with her
Aunt Mary to the sea-shore to spend her vaca-
tion, May had planned what she would do in
the autumn. In the first place she would have
a party — a garden-party, for September was a
lovely month at Hillside, and her father had
promised her a garden-party ever since they
had taken possession of their new house there,
three years ago. She would invite all the girls
of her set at the Hillside seminary, and as many
of her friends in town — and by "town" she
meant Boston, which was only six miles away
— as had returned from their summer jaunts.
Then she would persuade her father to buy her
a village wagon. She could drive very well, as
he himself had said, and she could bring him
from the station quite as well in a village wagon
as in the shabby old phaeton which she was per-
mitted to use, when Patrick was too busy to go
with the dog-cart. Yes, a party and a dear little
duck of a wagon like Marion Grant's, and then,
and then, — but at this point of her recollection
her tears flowed afresh, for of course all these
pretty plans must go, with the coming of the new
mother — no, the stepmother; she would never,
never call her mother.' Hermother! — she looked
up at the portrait that hung above the little clock
— the portrait of a fair sweet-faced woman with
pleasant eyes that seemed to follow you about
with a laugh in them. She died five years ago,
when May was nine years old, but May could
almost fancy she heard her mother saying as
those laughing eyes met her daughter's :

" What 's the matter with the little daughter
now ? "

A sob caught in the daughter's throat here,
and she cried aloud, " Oh, Mamma, Mamma,
it 's no small thing that 's the matter now, but
a very, very great thing. It 's somebody com-
ing to take your place — your place and mine,
Mamma." But if May had a half fancy that
the eyes would look different, would change
their merry expression at this, she was mistaken.
As the yellow afternoon sun sent a bright dan-
cing ray across the canvas, the eyes seemed to
dance with it, in the happiest possible way, and
tick, tack, tick, tack, the little clock sent its

.8S 9 .]

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

147

yellow pendulum back and forth in die sun-
shine. From the portrait, May glanced at the
clock-face. Why, why, why ! the fifteen min-
utes had passed, and so absorbed had she been
in her thoughts, she had not heard the locomo-
tive whistle. How very odd. She ran out of
the room, and out of the hall upon the piazza.
The train must have arrived, and in five min-
utes more she would hear the carriage. From
end to end she paced slowly up and down.
How sweet the honeysuckle smelled, and the
late lilies were all red and gold bloom. Lean-
ing over the railing she broke one from its stem
and pinned it in her dress ; as she did so she
could see the clock through the open window.
Not only five, but ten minutes had gone. She
stopped and listened. Was that the carriage ?
No. Five minutes more. The train could n't
have arrived. What was the matter ? Tick,
tack, tick, tack, another five minutes went by
and Mrs. Marks came out on the piazza.

" My dear, I never knew this train to be
late," she said anxiously. Then May's endur-
ance gave way, and catching her hat from the
hall stand she ran down the steps, calling back
as she went :

" I 'm going to the depot, Mrs. Marks, to see
if anything has been heard. I can't wait here."

" That 's right, dearie ; you '11 feel better to
go, but I would n't worry — there 's been some
delay somewhere, that 's all."

" Some delay somewhere ! " May thought of
the delay that had occurred on the Boston and
Providence road the year before, when the Ros-
lindale bridge had given way, and hundreds of
people had gone down, with it. Her heart
seemed to beat up into her throat, to stop her
voice, and almost her breath. She could not
frame the words to ask a question when she en-
tered the depot, but she heard some one say,
" There 's been an accident." She lost the
next sentence, and caught only the last words,
" — but the track is clear now, and the train has
started."

Walking to the further end of the platform,
away from all the people, poor May sat down
upon a baggage-truck to watch and wait. As
she sat there she imagined the worst that could
have happened. Perhaps her father was badly
hurt, perhaps he was killed, and she would

never see him again; and at the very time,
when he had been suffering, perhaps dying, she
had been having hard thoughts of him, had
blamed him for what he had done, and what he
had not done — for marrying again, and for not
telling her of his plans until the last moment.
She grew hot, then cold, as she thought of the
words she had said to Cathy Bond — of how
she had joined her in calling him unkind, and
even cruel. Oh, if only he came back alive, so
that she could show him how she loved him ! If
only he came back she would not do any of the
disagreeable things she had declared to Cathy
Bond that she would do. She would — yes,
she would — even kiss her stepmother when she
met her. She had said to Cathy only yester-
day, " I shall not kiss her, and I shall be very
stiff and cold to both of them." To both of
them! Perhaps, perhaps —

In another moment May would have lost all
control of herself and burst out crying, if the
sound of a long shrill whistle had not roused
her to the immediate present. As she heard
it, she jumped to her feet and ran up the plat-
form.

Yes, there was the train rounding the curve.
In a minute she would know — what ? She
crowded her way through the throng of people
to the front. Swiftly, then slackening in speed,
the cars roll in and come to a full stop. There
are faces at the windows, there are voices say-
ing, " I am so glad to see you " ; but not the face,
not the voice she is longing for. She turns sick,
cold, and dizzy, and staggers backward with an
attempt to get away out of this eager throng
that seems so happy. Then it is that somebody
cries :

" Why, here she is, now! "

She lifts her head, and there he is — her hand-
some, young-looking father, sound and well and
smiling down upon her.

" O Papa, Papa ! I thought you were killed
— the train was so late, and they said — they
said—"

" My dear child ! There, there, don't — don't
cry. It 's all right you see. Here, Margaret,
here 's this little girl has been frightened half out
of her wits at the delay — thought I was killed."

May made a great effort to be calm, but the
reaction was so swift it was hard work, and her

148

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Dec.

pale face and tremulous lips were expressive of
her nervousness as she looked up to meet her
stepmother's glance. It was not a smiling
glance like her father's, but May found it easier
to meet for that reason. She knew her father
always dreaded what he called " a scene," and
had always discouraged any outbreaks either of
tears or excited laughter ; and with this knowl-
edge she was perfectly well aware that her
twitching lips and pallid face were annoying
him at that moment. But this serious glance
that met her, and the quiet remark, "I don't
wonder that you were frightened at such a de-
lay; /should have been very much frightened
in your place," gave May a little time to re-
cover herself, and then the quiet voice went on,
asking no questions, but speaking of the causes
of the delay, that did not, it seemed, involve
much danger, being merely an accident of ob-
struction by the breaking down of a freight-car,
of which warning was duly given from station
to station.

" Oh, I thought it was something dreadful,"
May broke forth at this. "I heard some one
say something about an accident, and I was too
frightened to ask a question myself."

" And so worked yourself up into a fever
with your imagination as usual, my dear," her
father responded, half laughing.

" She did the most natural thing in the world
for a girl. I think I should have done the same
thing," the quiet voice here said, with an easy
tone of bright decision.

" Oh, you ! I dare say. I 've a pair of you, I
see."

May looked at her father in surprise. He
looked back at her with a funny little grimace.

" Yes, May, she 's just such another goose as
you are in some things."

May caught the smile upon her stepmother's
face. Her stepmother ! In the excitement she
had for the moment forgotten the stepmother.
She regarded her now for the first time with ob-
serving eyes. What did she see ?

A tall slender young woman, with brunette
coloring, and an air of ease and elegance about
her. May glanced across at her father. How
happy he seemed, and how young he appeared !
But he must be a great deal older than this new-
wife — this "Margaret." He had gray hairs,

and there was no gray in that dark coil and
fluff under the small stylish bonnet. May took
in all these details and said to herself, " Why did
she marry him, I wonder ? " Then a mischiev-
ous little spirit whispered that her father was a
rich man, and she remembered what Cathy Bond
had said about girls marrying for money. Alas!
for May's good resolutions, as she sat waiting for
the train a few minutes before. If her father
only came back ! And here he was, full of life
and strength, and she had forgotten already.
If he only came back, she would show him how
she loved him, she would even — kiss her step-
mother when she met her ! But as the girl
thought of this last duty which she had meant
to perform, it suddenly came over her that she
had really not been called upon to perform it —
that nobody in fact, neither her father nor her
stepmother, had seemed to expect it. Of course
everything was to be accounted for by the ex-
citement of the occasion, but, nevertheless, a
feeling of chagrin sent a flush to May's cheek at
the recollection, and then a swift sharp question
stung her, " Was this the way she was to be for-
gotten by them ? "

Chapter III.

" A GARDEN-party ? Why yes, so I did prom-
ise you a garden-party some time. I remember,
but it seems to me — it 's rather late in the year,
is n't it?"

" Oh, no ; not if I set it for next week. Hill-
side is lovely in September."

" Yes, but next week is the fourth week in
September — pretty late in the month to count
on the weather. Margaret," and Mr. Bartlett's
voice rose a little louder in tone as he called to
his wife, who was coming down one of the gar-
den walks to the piazza where he and May were
sitting.

" Yes," responded Margaret, looking up from
the flowers she carried.

" Don't you think the fourth week in Septem-
ber is rather late for a garden-party ? "

" Decidedly late. Why, I hope you are not
thinking of giving a garden-party, are you ? "

" I ? Oh, no ; it was May's idea. There, you
see — you '11 have to wait until next year, my
dear," turning to May.

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

149

Margaret lifted her head quickly, and saw a
rebellious expression on her stepdaughter's face.
It was a still, cold expression, that she had seen
several times before in the three days she had
been at Hillside. Coming forward more rapidly,
she said easily and pleasantly :

" It is very nice of you to think of a garden-
party for me, but it is rather late, you know."

Mr. Bartlett had taken up his newspaper, and
paid no heed to these words. May sat silent,
her chin- dropped against her breast, all kinds
of mutinous little thoughts in her mind, first and
foremost of which was, " She thinks everything
is to be for her t "

Mrs. Bartlett meanwhile stood regarding the
downbent face with a look of great perplexity,
and with a slight flush on her cheek. The flush
deepened, as May suddenly jumped from her
chair and, catching up her school-satchel, started
off down the walk with a " Good-bye, Papa."

Her father glanced over his paper with a look
of surprise. It was not May's habit to go away
like this, without a good-bye kiss. He was about
to call her back, when he saw her join one of
her school friends just outside the gate. In a
few moments the matter slipped from his mind,
in the absorbing interest of the political news he
was reading.

It was Cathy Bond whom May had joined.
Cathy was full of a lively interest in the new
stepmother. She had found May rather re-
served in what she had said within the last three
days, and was greatly desirous of discovering
the "reason why," of seeing for herself what sort
of a person the stepmother was, and " how things
were going;" but her little plan of calling for
May was foiled by May's joining her outside the
gate. In a moment, however, she saw, with
those sharp eyes of hers, that something was
very much amiss, and in a sympathetic tone
asked :

" What is it, Maisie, what is the matter? "

" Matter ! " With a catch in her breath, May
repeated the brief conversation aboutthe garden-
party. The reserve of the last few days had
vanished. Her good resolutions had blown to
the winds. But it was only to Cathy that she
spoke directly. Whether Cathy would have had
the strength to have been silent if May had asked
her, it is impossible to tell. But May did not

ask her, — perhaps in her resentment she did n't
care, perhaps she did n't think ; at any rate Cathy
did not keep silent, and by the afternoon recess
all the girls knew the story of the garden-party
as they had heard it from Cathy Bond.

Even Joanna Macy was stirred to indignation
by this story.

" She must be conceited to think the party
could only be for her. What had May to do
with getting up a garden-party for her step-
mother ? "

Susy Morris, who heard the indignant tone of
Joanna's voice, wanted to know what it meant.

" Oh, it means," cried Joanna, " that Cathy
was n't far wrong about the stepmother"; and
then Joanna repeated the story, as she had
heard it from Cathy, that May had asked her
father that morning if she might have the garden-
party he had promised her, and that her step-
mother had interfered and said that, though she
was much obliged to May for thinking of giving
a garden-party for her, that it was decidedly too
late for it, and that she hoped it would not be
thought of any more ! " The idea," concluded
Joanna, "of her taking it for granted that the
party must be for her — that May, a girl of four-
teen, would think of getting up any kind of a
party for her ! I never heard anything so con-
ceited. Well ? " as Susy's small face began to
wrinkle up with a puzzled frown, " say it out,
Susy, whatever it is ! "

" My cousin — "

Joanna shouted with laughter.

"Oh, Susy, that cousin of yours!"

But Susy went on : " My cousin was n't but
fifteen, and she asked her father to make a sail-
ing party for her stepmother. Perhaps May's
stepmother thought that May was just asking
for the party in the same way, as a kind of
welcome, you know. She might have misun-
derstood, or she might not have heard the
whole, — don't you see?"

" No, I don't see. They were all on the
piazza talking; and May had distinctly asked
her father if she might give to the school-girls
the garden-party that he had promised that she
might. Now, Miss Susy, what have you to
say ? "

" Nothing, only it does seem queer, if all
this was said right out before the stepmother,

ISO

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Dec.

that she should have thought the party was for " Why, to be sure. It 's a trial to her, of course,

her, and should have thanked May. When she and it 's as much as she can do to keep up."

did that, why did n't May tell her how it was " A trial to her. Why is it a trial to her ? "

— or why did n't Mr. Bartlett ? " asked Joanna, imitating Cathy's grown-up words

" Oh, Susy, you will make a first-class lawyer and ways.

if you live to grow up," was Joanna's laughing Cathy flamed up.

reply to this. But, though Joanna laughed, " You don't seem to have any feeling, Joanna.

Susy's words set her to thinking that perhaps
there was a mistake somewhere, and suddenly
she thought of something her mother had said
to her once when she had repeated an unkind
story to her : " My dear, a story twice told is
two stories ; and three times told, the truth is
pretty well lost sight of."

But when Joanna tried to take this ground
with the girls, she could get no hearing, for
Cathy Bond was a power at the Hillside school,
with her quick sympathies, and her quick, glib
way of expressing them. To May, this quick,
glib way had always been attractive; it was still

Don't you suppose she thinks of her own mother
while these things are going on ? "

This was too much for Joanna's keen common
sense, and she laughed outright.

" Things going on ! Calling, and drinking
tea! Oh, Cathy!"

" Well, but — but — it is n't just ordinary call-
ing; it : s like — like parties," answered Cathy,
flushing and stammering.

" And has n't Mr. Bartlett had whist-parties
and dinner-parties many a time ? "

" They were gentlemen's parties."

" Well, did n't May's Aunt Mary — her

more so now, when she found it ranged so mother's own sister — have parties when she

warmly on her side. Yet if she had heard was staying there, and," triumphantly, " has n't

Cathy's repetition of her account of the garden- May herself had a birthday-party every year

party conversation, I think she would have been since her mother died ? "

a little startled, but she did not hear it, and so " Yes ; but that 's different. This is a stranger

matters went on from bad to worse; that is, the who comes to take her mother's place."

story grew and grew, and one girl and another
took up what they called poor May's cause,
and looked, if they did not speak, their pity,
until May became such a center of interest that
she could not but be affected by it, could not
but feel that she had reason to be very un-
happy. Yet, in spite of this feeling, there was
n't so much outward indication of it as one
might have expected.

J oanna remarked upon this one day to Cathy,
declaring that, for her part, she thought that
May seemed to look very cheerful under the
circumstances.

" Cheerful ! " exclaimed Cathy tragically.
" Why she 's just wretched, but she 's keeping

"She 's a stranger to May; but Mr. Bartlett
has married this stranger just as he married
May's mother."

" Yes, and I think it was horrid for him to
do so."

" Oh, Cathy, lots of people marry again — the
nicest and best of people."

" Well, I think it is perfectly dreadful, when
there are children, to give them a strange woman
in the place of their mother. It is just as selfish
as it can be."

" But, Cathy, there are good stepmothers as
well as bad ones. Why, stepmothers are just
like other people."

" Yes, before they are stepmothers ; but when

up; you know they are having no end of giddy they step into own mothers' places, they —

goings-on up there." they — "

" Up where ? " As Cathy hesitated, Joanna laughingly broke

" Why, at the Bartletts'. Lots of people are in with, " They become wicked wolves, who are

calling, and it seems that Mrs. Bartlett has any all ready to worry and devour their poor vic-

quantity of friends and relatives in Boston, and tims ! " Cathy could not help joining a little in

they are driving out to see her and having five Joanna's laugh ; but she said, almost in the next

o'clock tea with her, and all that sort of thing." breath :

" And May is in it all ? " " Oh, you can make fun, Joanna, as much as

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

you like, but you '11 never make me believe in little yellow wagon,-
stepmothers ! "

Just when Cathy was saying this, just when
Joanna was wrinkling up her forehead and want-
ing to say impatiently, " Oh, you little pig of
prejudice ! " around the corner, where they stood
talking, there suddenly appeared a big open car-
riage, full of gayly dressed people.

" There she is ! " whispered Cathy, pointing
with a nod of her head to a lady who was smil-
ingly speaking to the gentleman sitting next to
her.

Joanna craned her neck forward eagerly.
This was her first glimpse of the stepmother.

" Why, she 's a beauty ! " she cried out to
Cathy ; " and she looks like a girl ! But
where 's May, I wonder ? "

" Oh, yes ; where 's May ? You see she

151

• a village wagon, — and in
it were May Bartlett and a young girl about her
own age. May was driving. She looked more
than cheerful ; she looked as if she was enjoying
herself very much, and she was so occupied that
she failed to see her two school friends as she
drove by.

Joanna laughed.

" That 's what you call ' keeping up,' I sup-
pose, Cathy," she said slyly.

Cathy did n't answer.

" And she has got the village wagon, after all.
You were perfectly sure she would n't get it,
you know."

" Well, May told me that when she asked her
father for it, he said he did n't believe he could
afford it now, and her stepmother flushed up
and looked at him so queerly, as if she did n't

is n't there. I suppose she was n't wanted — like it, and so, of course, May thought that was

there was n't room for her," answered Cathy
spitefully.

But presently round the corner they heard
again a light roll of wheels on the smooth road,
and there appeared another carriage. It was a

(Totei

the end of it. But I suppose when he came to
think it over he was ashamed not to get it for
her."

Joanna wrinkled up her forehead again, but
she kept her thoughts to herself.

ontituted. )

DREAMS.

By S. Walter Norris.

OME tiny elves, one evening, grew

mischievous, it seems,
And broke into the store-room where

the Sand-man keeps his dreams,
And gathered up whole armfuls of

dreams all bright and sweet,
And started forth to peddle them

a-down the village street.

Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly these dreams sold;
Why, nearly all the youngest folk bought dreams of being old ;
And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a gentle little thing,
Invested in a dream about an awful pirate king ;

152

DREAMS.

A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fashioned and absurd,
Bought dreams of names the longest and the queerest ever heard ;
And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of costly toys,
Bought dreams of selling papers with the raggedest of boys.

And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy at play

Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman quite gray ;

And one old lady — smiling through the grief she tried to hide —

Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl who died.

A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful gaze,
Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all ablaze —
Well, it was n't many minutes from the time they came in sight
Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves had taken flight.

HAPPY CHARITY CHILDREN.

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J mu^t travel to-day »J /

\' v "Tc reacJ\ the -/W o/)^ sk)C^ •

ritl\ec, tell me why
TKou- 5ccKcjt tKe 5ky ,
^Pof tKe rain 15 cp^i^c apace ||jj
' llB ow J|)ramble-ma7A f f\u5/\ 1 |

&o to brusk
TT\e cobwebs -from it$ /ace

Mi^hcn up and &\vay, &tao(. ovcr,-arvo( or\
%&-/' Till thou. tKe piace hast /bu»\d
^^Kere thelnlairvbow ladder that reacKes tKe skies
H^Sts witk its end on tKe dround
^%nd climb by day and cli'mb by nioht
Hack slippery Seven/bid round. M

«S

JlCNIf^y f a ^ tke f|ame I can not jo
TKe road i$ too lono, and my^/eet are too 5I0W
H must <,ecK $ome other way to 00 .**

||§ld Woman!® lot ^^brrvanJOld^man! quoth Ke.
I^^bure bound to have your own way I 5ee
§° i/^y ou - e^ '^ ''ke it, you neednt blame me .

■58

iSPhe-n ke nut tk« |ame m a basket

>nd rope> to the handles ke hed
ind one he made fait to tKe old church, tower
And o>\e to a tree be5i*de .
^ y ^nol tken wttK a. pole he puj/\ed /^er

Til ske swluao' oixt /3vr ^nci wide .

- o «/

VfS'e 5wand ker all day and Kc svvuncr ] A er evil nickt
' ' / J%nd tt\c men m tKe towa came oui to Kelp

<^Wi_th aYo Keave © ! 'and a Heave away j
Wkile tKe little doc/s cfathered around to yelp
,And tkeBra»mblc^bu3^^ian cri'ed'^-and-By
"%o|ell kavc kcr $wunc/ up ts$Jkr as tKe _sKy '

159

/[-_),■; . t . K I
• -? /rli^'if. ; ■ \? ,/ -

X.'\tn^4 , y^ er ' &nol i /^fer, and J till more/ast,

C ^d Woman and basket and broomwerc 5er.t ; ^
'Ynen &ykrmer$ wiVe
^^iHa acarvino' kni/e
W E1i ao^ v '- r i^^' Ke ro P e 3-and away iKe went ! J

,' V^r.l-fK* >1 ? 1 ""ill ^ 9/ b ^r ^<V,

If #41 W' ' ^' ne ty f,me !> a S %K as tKe moon! /§\J
1 f pfcPlcl^Wbman ! ®ld^man!©fdWom&n!£uo/K I
\ ^p W © wKflKer, © w/vtker, ©wkiUer 5 o kig'k ? "
' To bru_sk tke cobwebs out o/ ike }ky, "»
<And T 'II be baek a^' am — by and by ]

" I 'll wait for you. come on !

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

By Tudor Jenks.

Early one morning during my third visit to
Patagonia, as I was strolling upon the banks of
the River Chico, keeping a sharp lookout for a
choice specimen of the Rutabaga Tremendosa,
I saw what, .at the time, I supposed to be a
large and isolated cliff. It looked blue, and
consequently I supposed it to be at some dis-
tance. Resuming my search for the beautiful
saffron blossom which I have already named,
my attention was for some moments abstracted.
After pulling the plant up by the roots, how-
ever, I happened to cast my eyes again toward

the supposed cliff, and you can conceive my ex-
treme mortification and regret when I saw that
it was not a cliff at all, but a giant, and, so far
as I could see, one of the most virulent species.
He was advancing at a run, and although not
exerting himself overmuch seemed to be going
at a rate of some five kilometers a minute. Much
annoyed at the interruption to my researches, I
paused only long enough to deposit the Ruta-
baga securely in my botany box and then broke
into an accelerated trot. Do me the justice to
acquit me of any intention of entering into a

162

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

[Dec.

contest of speed with the pursuing monster. I
am not so conceited as to imagine I can cover five
or even three kilometers a minute. No ; I relied,
rather, on the well-established scientific proba-
bility that the giant was stupid. I expected,
therefore, that my head would have an oppor-
tunity to save my heels.

It was not long before I saw the need of tak-
ing immediate steps to secure my specimens
from destruction and myself from being eaten.
He was certainly gaining upon me. As he
foolishly ran with his mouth open, I noticed
that his canine teeth were very well developed
— not a proof, but strong evidence, that he was
a cannibal. I redoubled my speed, keeping an
eager eye upon the topography in the hope
that I might find some cave or crevice into
which I could creep and thus obtain time
enough to elaborate a plan of escape. I had
not run more than six or eight kilometers, I
think (for distances are small in that part of
Patagonia — or were, when I was there), when
I saw a most convenient cretaceous cave.

To ensconce myself within its mineral recesses
was the work of but a moment, and it was fort-
unate for me that it took no longer. Indeed,
as I rolled myself deftly beneath a shelving
rock, the giant was so near that he pulled off
one of my boots.

He sat down at the entrance and breathed
with astonishing force and rapidity.

" Now, if he is as stupid as one of his race
normally should be," I said to myself, " he will
stay there for several hours, and I shall lose a
great part of this beautiful day." The thought
made me restless, and I looked about to see
whether my surroundings would hint a solution
of the situation.

I was rewarded by discovering an outlet far
above me. I could see through a cleft in the
rocks portions of a cirro-cumulus cloud. Fixing
my hat more firmly upon my head, I began the
ascent. It did not take long. Indeed, my
progress was, if anything, rather accelerated by
the efforts of the attentive giant, who had secured
a long and flexible switch, — a young India-
rubber tree, I think, though I did not notice its
foliage closely, — and was poking it with con-
siderable violence into the cave. In fact, he
lifted me some decameters at every thrust.

It may easily be understood, therefore, that I
was not long upon the way. When I emerged,
I was much pleased with the situation. Speak-
ing as a military expert, it was perfect. Stand-
ing upon a commodious ledge, which seemed
to have been made for the purpose, my head
and shoulders projected from an opening in the
cliff, which was just conveniently out of the giant's
reach. As my head rose over the edge of the
opening, the giant spoke :

"Aha, you 're there, are you ? "

" I won't deny it," I answered.

" You think you 're safe, don't you ? " he went
on tauntingly.

" I know I 'm safe," I answered, with an easy
confidence which was calculated to please.

" Well," he replied, " to-night I am going to
eat you for supper ! "

" What, then," I asked, with some curiosity,
" are you going to do for dinner ? "

" Oh, if that troubles you," said he, " all you
have to do is to come out at dinner-time and I
will eat you then."

Evidently the giant was not a witling. His
answers were apt. After a moment's reflection
I concluded it was worth the effort to make an
appeal to his better nature — his over-soul.

" Don't you know that it is wrong to eat your
fellow-beings ? " I asked, with a happy mingling
of austere reproach and sympathetic pain.

" Do you mean to come out soon ? " asked
the giant, seating himself upon an adjacent cliff,
after tearing off such of the taller and stiffer
trees as were in his way.

"It depends somewhat upon whether you
remain where you are," I answered.

" Oh, I shall stay," said the giant, pleasantly.
" Game is rare, and I have n't eaten a white
man for two weeks."

This remark brought me back to my appeal
to his higher being. " Then I shall remain here,
too, for the present," I answered, " though I
should like to get away before sunset. It 's
likely to be humid here after the sun sets.
But. to return to my question, have you never
thought that it was immoral and selfish to
eat your fellow-creatures ? "

" Why, certainly," said the giant, with a hearty
frankness that was truly refreshing. " That is
why," he went on, " I asked you whether you

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

were coming out soon. If not, I would be glad
to while the time away by explaining to you
exactly how 1 feel about these matters. Of
course I could smoke you out " (here he
showed me an enormous boulder of flint and a
long steel rod, the latter evidently a propeller-
shaft from some wrecked ocean-steamer), " but
I make it a rule seldom to eat a fellow-mortal
until he is fully convinced that, all things con-
sidered, I am justified in so doing."

The allusion to the smoking-out process con-
vinced me that this was no hulking ignoramus
of a giant, and for a moment I began to fear
that my Rutabaga Tremendoso was lost to the
world forever. But the latter part of his speech
re-assured me.

" If you can convince me that I ought to be
eaten," I said, willing to be reasonable, "I shall

l6 3

found employment upon a farm. I stayed there
three days. Then I was told that it cost more
to keep me than I was worth ; which was true.
So I left Then I went to work on a railroad.
Here I did as much as twenty men. The result
was a strike, and I was discharged."

" Is there much more autobiography ? " I
asked as politely as I could, for I was not at all
interested in this unscientific memoir.

" Very little," he answered. " I can sum it
up in a few words. Wherever I tried to get
work, I was discharged, because my board was
too expensive. If I tried to do more work to
make up for it, the other men were dissatisfied,
because it took the bread out of their mouths.
Now, I put it to you, what was I to do ? "

" Evidently, you were forced out of civiliza-
tion," I answered, " and compelled to rely upon

'■ • ■ 3£

'I SAW THE NEED OF TAKING IMMEDIATE STEPS TO SAVE MY SPECIMENS."

certainly offer no objection. But I confess I
have little fear that you will succeed."

" I first discovered that I was a giant," he
said, absently chewing the stem of the India-
rubber tree, " at a very early age. I could not
get enough to eat. I then lived in New York
City, for I am an American, like yourself."

We bowed with mutual pleasure.

" I tried various sorts of work, but found I
could not earn enough at any of them to pay
my board-bills. I even exhibited myself in a
museum, but found there the same trouble.

" I consulted my grandfather, who was a man
of matured judgment and excellent sense. His
advice was to leave the city and try for work in
the country. I did so, and after some little trouble

nature for your sustenance. That is," I went
on, to forestall another question, " you had to
become a hunter, trapper, or fisherman, — for of
course, in your case, agriculture was out of the
question, as you could n't easily get down
to the ground, and would crush with your feet
more crops than you could raise with your
hands."

His eyes sparkled with joy at being so thor-
oughly understood. " Exactly," he said. " But
the same trouble followed me there. Wherever
I settled, the inhabitants complained that what
I ate would support hundreds of other people."

" Very true," I answered ; " but, excuse me,
could you hand me a small rock to sit upon ? —
it is tiresome to stand here."

164

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

[Dec.

" Come out," he said. "You have my word
'A of honor, as a compatriot of George "

" Say no more ! " I broke in hastily.

I came out, and was soon, by his kind aid,
perched upon the branch of a tree conveniently
near.

"This argument," he said, sighing, "met me
at every turn ; and after much cogitation I could
see no solution of the difficulty. No matter
how far from the ' busy haunts of men ' I pro-
ceeded, it was only to find that food grew scarcer
as men were less numerous. At last I reached
Patagonia, and after a few years I have eaten it
almost bare. Now, to what conclusion am I
driven ? "

I thought it over. At last I said :

" I see the extremities to which you are re-
duced. But upon what principle do you pro-
ceed to the next step — cannibalism ? "

" The greatest good to the greatest number,"
said he. " Whenever I eat an animal, I dimin-
ish the stock of food which supports mankind,
but whenever I eat a man, I diminish the num-
ber to be supported. As all the wise men agree
that it is the subsistence which is short, my
course of action tends ultimately to the greater
happiness of the race."

This seemed very reasonable and for a mo-
ment I was staggered. Then a happy thought

' ' -'."A

'AHA, VOL' RE THERE, ARE YOU?

9-]

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAX GIANT.

I6 5

came to me, and I sug-
gested that if he should
allow himself to die of
starvation the demand
for subsistence would be
still more reduced.

He shook his head
sadly. " I used to hope
so myself. But the ex-
perience of some years,
tabulated and reduced
to most accurate statis-
tics, has convinced me
beyond a doubt that I
can catch and eat enough
men, in a year, to more
than make up for what
would be saved if I
should allow my own
organism to cease its
active exertions in the
cause of humanity."

I thought very care-
fully over these argu-
ments and was unable
to pick a flaw in them.

" Asaman of science,"
I said, after a pause, " I
could wish that this in-
terview might be re-
ported to the world."

" Give yourself no
uneasiness. It shall be
done," said the giant.

" And I should also be
glad to have the Ruta-
baga Tremendosa forwarded very soon to the
Metropolitan Museum," I said thoughtfully.

" With pleasure," said the giant.

There was no excuse for further delay.

# /£

THE GIANT AND THE PROFESSOR SETTLE IT AMICABLY.

" And are you convinced ? " asked the giant,
speaking with much kindly consideration.

" Perfectly," I said, and kicked oft" the other
boot.

[Note, by the giant. — In accordance with Professor Muddlehed's last wishes I have reported
our full conversation verbatim. In fact, much of the foregoing account was revised by the Pro-
fessor himself, before supper. He would have been glad, I have no doubt, to have gone over the
paper again, but the bell rang and he was too considerate to keep the table waiting. He had
many excellent tastes, and there was a flavor of originality about the man — a flavor I like. I
enjoyed meeting him very much, and regret that my principles were such as to preclude a longer
and less intimate acquaintance. I forwarded the specimen to the museum as directed, and
received in return an invitation to visit the building in New York. Though I can not accept the
kind invitation, I should find it gratifying to have the trustees at my own table.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

By Walter Camp.

STAGG. RHODES. WOODRUFF.

MCCLUNG. CORBIN

Wl'RTEMBERG.

VALE FOOT-BALL TEAM OF IB

" What makes a good foot-ball player?" is a
question asked over and over again. Many are
the answers given, but no answer is correct that
does not contain the word " pluck." The same
elements that go to make up excellence in any
of the other field sports are requisite in foot-ball ;
but while in certain of the others that peculiar
type of courage called pluck is only required in
a moderate degree, in foot-ball it is absolutely
indispensable. Many a man has said : "Oh! I
am too small to play foot-ball ; I could n't get
on the team." Such a man makes a mistake.

Look at the records of our players and see how
full they are of the names of small men. With-
ington, Cushing, Harding, Hodge, Beecher, and
twenty others, have played weighing under a
hundred and forty ! Nor has it been that their
deeds have been remembered because performed
by such small men. These men made points as
well as reputations. There is a place on the foot-
ball field for a man, no matter what he weighs;
and that brings to mind a remarkable pair of boys
and what they did for a Yale team at one time.
One was the son of a United States Senator

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

167

from Massachusetts, and the other a younger
brother of a well-known Brooklyn lawyer. They
were classmates at Yale, and had done more or
less foot-ball work during the course. These
two men weighed about a hundred and twenty-
five pounds apiece, or together a little over the
weight of the 'varsity snap-back. In that year
the 'varsity team was suffering from a combina-
tion of two disorders — over-confidence and lack
of strong practice. None knew this better than
these two little chaps, for they understood the
game thoroughly. One day, then, they appeared
at the field in their foot-ball toggery, and without
assistance from the 'varsity captain set at once
to work upon organizing the " scrub side," as the
outside or irregular players are called. One of
them played center and the other quarter, and
it was not many days before the scrub side be-
gan to have a game and a way of its own. The
overfed, underworked university players began
to find that they could n't have things all their
own way. Such tricks were played upon them
that they were forced to wake from their apathy.
These two boys began to show them the way to
make use of brains against weight and strength,
and the scrub side, that a week or two before had
been unable to hold the 'varsity even enough
to make the contest interesting, actually had the
audacity to score against them once or twice
every afternoon. How those two ever got such
work out of the rabble they had to handle, no
one knows to this day ; but it was the making of
the 'varsity team, for it speedily developed
under this experience into one of Yale's strong-
est teams, and I have often heard one of that
team remark since that he 'd rather play against
any team in the Association than against the
"scrubs" lead by " Pop" Jenks and "Timmy"
Dawes.

This brings us to another quality : the brains
of a team. That team is the best which has the
most brains. Foot-ball is, even now, an unde-
veloped sport. There is room for an almost
infinite number of as yet unthought-of plays.
Every season brings forward many new ones.
If a player wishes to devote a little of his spare
time to a fascinating amusement, let him take
pencil and paper and plan out combinations in
the evening, and try them the next day. He
will soon find that he is bringing out not only

new but successful plays. Some think that the
captain of the 'varsity team is the only one who
has an opportunity to try this ; but if two or three
on the scrub side will make the attempt they will
find that a 'varsity team is no more proof against
a new scheme than the veriest scrub team in ex-
istence. In fact, oftentimes the 'varsity players
are so sublime in their own consciousness of
superiority that they are the simplest men on
the field to lead into traps and defeat by a little
exercise of ingenuity. If a boy at school is n't
on the first team, he can get together a few men
of the second team and have the satisfaction of
actually showing his betters how to play.

" Play not for gain but sport," is thoroughly
sound ; but it means play honestly and hard, not
listlessly and carelessly, and make it your sport
to win. Then if you lose, put a good face on
it ; but go home and think out a way to win next
time. Brains will beat brute strength every time
if you give them fair play.

Endurance is another element of success.
Plenty of dash when it is necessary, but behind
it there must be the steady, even, staying quali-
ties. For these, good training is chiefly responsi-
ble ; because, although natural endurance does
exist in some men, it is not common, while the
endurance of well-trained men is a thing that
can be relied upon with confidence.

A direct case in point was a victory of Prince-
ton over Yale, in 1878. Upon the Yale team
were some three or four men, upper class men,
who thought that they had done enough training
in former years, and they therefore made but a
pretense of following out the rules of strict
training. The example of these men affected
several of the other players to such an extent
that there was great laxity. Up to the time of
the final contest, this team had performed well,
and it was generally believed that they would
have no great difficulty in defeating Princeton.

In the first half of the game they pressed the
Orange men hard, and several times all but
scored. In the dressing-room at intermission
there was a general impression that, with the wind,
which would be in Yale's favor the second half,
they must surely win. The second half began,
and it was not many minutes before the Yale
men found themselves steadily losing ground.
There was in the Princeton runners a resistless

1 68

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Dec.

force that kept Yale retreating nearer and nearer tun had come to New Haven after a long
to her own goal. At last, by a brilliant play, wrangle about the place of playing, and had
Princeton succeeded in making a touch-down brought a team supposed by experts through-

CARPENTER.

DAVIS. TRAFFORD. WELD — MANAGER. PORTER.

DEAN. HARDING, V. SEARS. WOODMAN.

HARVARD FOOT-BALL TEAM OF 18

CUMNOCK.
CROFBY.

LEE.

CRANSTON.

from which a goal was kicked. During the re-
mainder of the game, Princeton, although mak-
ing no further score, held Yale fast down inside
the twenty-five-yard line, and the Blue went
back to New Haven with a very salutary lesson
on the evil of neglecting the laws of training.

These are laws which no foot-ball player can
afford to ignore.

Lamar's Run.

One of the most magnificent dashes ever
made on an American foot-ball field was the
run made by Lamar, of Princeton, in the game
with Yale, which was played upon the Yale
field, November 21, 1885. The game had
been an unusual one in many respects. Prince-

out the country to be sure winners. The Yale
team was a green one, and none of her parti-
sans hoped for more than a respectable show-
ing against the Princeton veterans. But Peters,
the Yale captain, had done wonders with his
recruits, as the game soon showed. His team
opened with a rush and actually forced the
fight for the entire first half. They scored a
goal from the field upon the astonished Prince-
tonians, and, in spite of the valiant efforts put
forth against them, seemed certain of victory.
The feeling of the Princeton team and her sym-
pathizers can easily be imagined. The sun was
low in the horizon, nearly forty minutes of the
second half were gone, and no one dared to
hope such failing fortunes could be retrieved in
the few remaining minutes. The ball was in

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

169

Yale's hands, half-way down the field and on
the northern edge. For a moment Captain
Peters hesitated, and consulted with another of
his players as to whether he should continue the
running game and thus make scoring against
him impossible and victory certain, or send the
ball by a kick down in front of his enemy's goal
and trust to a fumble to increase .his score. Per-
haps not a dozen men knew what was in his
mind. A kick was surely the more generous
play in the eyes of the crowd. He settled the
ball under his foot, gave the signal, and shot it
back. The quarter sent it to Watkinson, who
drove it with a low, swinging punt across the

attempted to catch it, but it shot off his breast to-
ward the southern touch-line. Lamar, who had
been slightly behind this man, was just starting
up to his assistance from that particular spot. As
the ball slid off with its force hardly diminished
he made a most difficult short-bound catch of
it on the run, and sped away along the south-
ern boundary. The Yale forwards had all gone
past the ball, in their expectation of getting
it, as they saw the missed catch. Lamar,
therefore, went straight along toward the half-
back and back. Watkinson, the kicker, had
hardly stirred from his tracks, as the entire play
had occupied but a few seconds, and he was

HODGE, R.
GRIFFITH. HARRIS.

TOLER.

COOK.

HODGE, H.
LAMAR.
IRVINE. SAVAGE. FORD.

PRINCETON FOOT-BALL TEAM OF 1885.

twenty-five-yard line and toward the farther
goal post. It was a perfect kick for Yale's
purposes, difficult to catch and about to land
close to the enemy's posts. A Princeton man
Vol. XVIL— 20.

therefore too near the northern side of the field
to have even a chance to cut off the runner.
Lamar, with the true instinct of the bom run-
ner, saw in a moment his opportunity, and ran

170

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IX AMERICA.

[Dec.

straight along the southern edge as if he in-
tended to get by there. Bull and his comrade
(who then were inexperienced tacklers) were the
two men in his pathway, and they both bunched

LAMAR DODGING THE VALE TACKLEKS.

over by the line as the Princeton runner came
flying down upon them. Just as he was almost
upon them, Lamar made a swerve to the right,
and was by them like lightning before either
could recover. By this time two or three of the
Yale forwards, Peters among them, had turned
and were desperately speeding up the field after
Lamar, who was but a few yards in advance,
having given up several yards of his advantage
to the well-executed maneuver by which he
had cleared his field of the half-back and back.
Then began the race for victory. Lamar had
nearly forty yards to go, and, while he was run-
ning well, had had a sharp " breather " already,
not only in his run thus far, but in his superb
dodging of the backs. Peters, a strong, untiring,
thoroughly trained runner, was but a few yards
behind him, and in addition to this he was the
captain of a team which but a moment before
had been sure of victory. How he ran ! But
Lamar — did he not too know full well what the
beat of those footsteps behind him meant ? The
white five-yard lines fairly flew under his feet ;

past the broad twenty-five-yard line he goes,
still with three or four yards to spare. Now he
throws his head back with that familiar motion
of the sprinter who is almost to the tape, and
who will run his heart
out in the last few
strides, and, almost be-
fore one can breathe,
he is over the white
goal-line and panting
on the ground, with
the ball under him,
a touch-down made,
from which a goal was
kicked, and the day
saved for Princeton.

Bull's Kick.

The season of 1888
had opened with a veri-
table foot-ball boom.
The previous season
had ended with a close
contest between Har-
vard and Yale, while
Princeton, although oc-
cupying third place, had had by no means a
weak team. Reports of the preliminary work of
the three great teams, while conflicting, pointed
in a general way to an increased strength at each
university. The Boston papers were lauding the
work of the Harvard team, and the New York
papers returning the compliment with tales of
large scores by the Princeton men. Advices from
New Haven showed that Yale had a far greater
wealth of material from which to draw players
than either of the others, so that although the
actual strength of the team could not be learned,
it was certain that the lugubrious reports from
the City of Elms had little foundation. In
this state of affairs, the first game, which was
scheduled to be between the Crimson and the
Orange and Black, was eagerly awaited. The
game was played at Princeton, and an enor-
mous crowd assembled to witness the match.
Both sides were confident of victory, and
Princeton was also determined to avenge the
defeat of the former season. The day was per-
fect, and the game a thoroughly scientific one.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

171

Although Harvard battled manfully up to the
very last moment, she could not overcome the
lead which Princeton had obtained early in the
arame, and was at last forced to return to Cam-
bridge defeated. The hopes of Princeton soared
up that afternoon to the highest pitch, and those
who were well posted on the relative merits of
foot-ball players agreed with them that their
prospects were indeed of the brightest. Had it
not been for news which came over the wires
that evening from New Haven, it would have
been concluded that Princeton would find an
easy prey in Yale. But that news was some-
thing startling. It seems that the Yale-Wes-
leyan championship game had been played that
same day. Harvard and Princeton had each
already met Wesleyan,
but neither had scored
over fifty points against
them. The astonish-
ment of all foot-ball
men was great, then,
when the news came ^
that Yale had made 'i^jjj'*
the almost unprece- fWffjp
dented score of 105 %- J
againstthe Middletown
men. This, then, was
the state of affairs pre-
vious to the Yale-
Princeton match. Har-
vard was now out of
the question, owing to
her defeat by Prince-
ton, and all interest
centered in this final
contest. The day, while
not very promising in
its morning aspect,
turned out propitious toward noon, and fully fif-
teen thousand people crowded the Polo Grounds
before the players stepped out on the field. A
perfect roar of applause greeted the entrance
of the rival teams, and as they lined out facing
one another not even the most indifferent could
help feeling the thrill of suppressed excitement
that trembled through the vast throng. The
game began, and for twenty-five minutes first
one side gained a slight advantage, then the
other, but neither had been able to score. The

Yale men had a slight advantage in position,
having forced the ball into Princeton's territory.
So manfully were they held from advancing
closer to the coveted goal, that people were be-
ginning to think that the game might result in a
draw, neither side scoring. At this point Yale
had possession of the ball. That slight change
in position, — that massing of the forwards to-
ward the center and the closing up of the back,
— that surely means something ! Yes, Princeton
sees it too, and eagerly her forwards press up in
the line with their eyes all centered on the back,
for it is evident he is to try a drop-kick for goal.
This bright-faced, boyish-looking fellow, with
a rather jaunty air, is Bull, Yale's famous drop-
kicker. He seems calm and quiet enough as

LAMAR AFTER PASSING VALE S TWENTY-

YARD LINE.

he gives a look of direction to the quarter and
with a smile steps up to the spot where he
wishes the ball thrown. There is a moment of
expectancy, and then the whole forward line
seems torn asunder, and through the gap comes
a mass of Princeton rushers with a furious dash,
but just ahead of them flies the ball, from the
quarter, straight and sure into Bull's outstretched
hands. It hardly seems to touch them, so
quickly does he turn the ball and drop it before
him, as with a swing of his body he brings him-

i;:

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

self into kicking attitude, and catching the ball
with his toe, as it rises from the ground, shoots it
like a bolt just over the heads of the Princeton
forwards, and — down he goes in the rush! The

LAMAR, OF I'RIN'CETON.

ball, however, sails smoothly on, high in the air,
just missing by a few feet the wished-for goal.
A sigh of relief escapes from the troubled
breasts of Princeton sympathizers as they realize
that, for a time, at least, the danger is past.
The Orange and Black bring the ball out for a
kick- out, and work desperately to force it up
the field, having had too vivid a realization of
danger to desire a repetition. Again, however,
they are driven steadily back until the Yale
captain thinks he is near enough to give Bull a
second opportunity, and at a signal the forma-
tion for a kick is again made. Bull, a little less
smiling, a trifle less jaunty in his air, again takes
his position. Again Princeton opens up the
line and drives her forwards down upon him,
but again that deadly drop sails over their
heads ; this time a foot nearer the black cross-
bar. Another kick-out by Princeton follows,

and another desperate attempt to force the
blue back to the center of the field, but with
a maddening persistency, and with a steady
plunging not to be checked, the gray and blue
line fights its way, yard by yard, down upon the
Princeton territory. Captain Corbin glances
once more at the goal, sees that his line is
near enough, and again gives the signal. Bull
steps up for the third time, and his smile has
flown. He realizes that twice have his ten men
carried the ball for him up to the very door
of victory, only to see him close that door in
their faces. His lips are firmly set as his resolve
shows itself in every line of his well-knit frame.
He settles himself firmly on his feet and gives
the signal for the ball to come. For the third
time the little quarter hurls it from under the
very feet of the plunging mass, and this time Bull
sends it true as a bullet straight over the cross-

BULL, OF YALE.

bar between the posts. With a yell of delight
the Yale men rush madly over the ropes and seize
the successful kicker. In the second half Bull
has but one opportunity; but he takes advantage
of that one to score another goal, and when the
game is over is borne off in triumph by the
rejoicing Yalensians, the hero of the day.

The Emperor sat in his chair of state ;
Round about did the courtiers wait.
With cues behind

And smiles before,
They bowed to the Emperor
Down to the floor.
The Emperor's visage was yellow of hue,

And half-shut eyelids his eyes peered

through.
A letter he read,

• x vxvv v *

Then he nodded his head,

And, " Indeed it 's quite true," he frequently said.
For the letter described in words glowing like flame
Great Chinaland's glory, her Emperor's fame.

It came from Japan, from the Emperor there
(I don't know his name, but perhaps you don't

care),
And it went on to say,
In the pleasantest way:
" Good Brother of China, best greeting to-day.
I beg you '11 accept, as a very small token
Of my regard, which can never be spoken,
This coach and four.

From England, you see,
The Englishmen sent it
A present to me.
The kindly barbarians tendered me two ;
As I can't use both, I now send one to you."

Well pleased was the Emperor.

" Bring it up here.
You fellows, stand back there ! —

And make the
way clear."
" Pardon, Your Majesty,
That can not be ;

The coach will not go through the doorway, you
see."

i/4

HOW THE EMPEROR GOES.

[Dec.

There came a dark frown on the Emperor's
brow.
" Then I '11 go down, for I must see it now."

So down the stairs the Emperor ran,

And the courtiers followed, every man ;

As fast as they can they scuffle and run

After their master to see the fun.

After him, mind you, for you see,

The rule of the best society

Had been, for thousand of years and more :
" The Emperor always goes before."

The coach and four at the palace door
Was as large as life, or a size or two more.
With coachman and footman all complete,
And cushions of silk on the very best seat.
And round about in procession they walked,
And examined it all, and stared and talked.
And the Emperor rubbed his hands with pride —
"I '11 climb up in front there and take a ride."
But the coachman said, " Your Majesty,

. f*msMm < J

The seat inside is for you, you see;

The one in front 's where the driver sits — "

" WHAT? This fellow is out of his wits.
Idiot ! Don't you know the rule? —
Were n't manners taught when you went to

school ?
Remember this, if you know no more :

'The Emperor always goes before.'

" That highest seat
(Must I repeat?)

Is the one where the Emperor ought to go.
I can't ride aft,
And you must be daft.

i83 9 .]

HOW THE EMPEROR GOES.

1/5

For a moment to have fancied so ! "
And up on end each pigtail stood,
To think that the Emperor ever could,
Did, should, might or would
Ride behind. "Now, did you ever ? "
" No, really, upon my word, I never."

" But how shall I drive, Your

Majesty ? "
"Through the windows, or, — I don't

care," said he.
" That is your business, I should say,
But hand those cushions up this

way. "
It could n't be helped, so off they

went.
The Emperor rode to his heart's

content,
But long did the Emperor rue that

day!
Of course the horses ran away,

And the Emperor, as you may

suppose,
Came to the ground on his royal

nose.
His royal brow had a bump for a

token,
And one of the royal legs was

broken.

All he could do

(What more could you ?)

Was to hang the coachman and

footman too.
And then the Emperor changed

the rule,
And now you would learn, if you

went to school
In Chinaland ('t is a proverb

reckoned),
We call ityfr-Wwhen the Emperor 's

second."

By Ida Warner Van der Voort.

The shadows of night he drifted over the valley and hill,
And earth is hushed and silent under the starlight still ;
A low-voiced breeze is complaining among the willows and reeds,
Where the brook creeps stealthily onward away through the flowery meads ;
The goldenrod 's drowsily nodding, heavy with dew and perfume,
The grasses are whispering tenderly their secrets in the gloom ;
When hark ! thro' the hush and the starlight, a low sweet note is heard —
A low sweet note, like the call of a dreaming, half-wakened bird ;
On the air it lingers a moment, then trembling passes away,
As a falling summer blossom floats down from the parent spray.
But again and again it rises, in tones ever stronger and stronger,
Calling, and calling, and calling, it grows ever louder and longer ;
And see ! from behind a hill-top the ruddy-faced moon appears,
As if she paused to listen to the strange sweet sounds she hears;
While dark against the brilliant disk a boyish form is seen,
An elfish, wild-eyed lad is he, with hair of a golden sheen ;
A bonny boy, most fair to see, and tucked beneath his chin
He holds, and plays with loving touch, a quaint old violin.
But what can bring him here to-night ? For whom does he wait and call ?
For whom are they meant, those pleading strains that softly rise and fall ?
There 's a sudden rustle of little feet within the dusky shade —
With timid approach, and swift retreat, a rabbit comes over the glade ;
Nearer, still nearer he comes, like stars are his eager eyes,
They glow thro' the gloom of the evening, filled with a shy surprise;
And soon on every side are seen, eager, but half afraid,
The rabbits young, and rabbits old, of every size and shade,

176

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

177

' CLOSE TO THE FEET

OF THE PLAYER

THEY CREEP.'

Drawn by the notes so wild and weird, they gather from far and near ;

Advancing, retreating, on they come, pausing to listen, and peer,

And prick their silken, sensitive ears, and turn each little head,

Starting in fright if a withered leaf but crackles beneath their tread.

Soon, however, their fear departs, and under the magic spell,

Close to the feet of the player they creep, while higher the wild notes swell,

Until, like one who wakes from a trance, the player stays his hand,

And his large dark eyes look dreamily over the charmed band.

A faint smile curves his rosy lips, he flings back his golden hair,

And, slowly rising, forward moves, through the mellow moon-lit air.

The rabbits, grasping harebell wands, alert and upright stand,

And playing a merry elfin march, he leads them through the land.

Past fields where the yellow corn-husks whisper in drowsy surprise ;

Past vagrant vines' detaining arms, red with the autumn dyes;

178

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

[Dec.

" PLAYING A MERRY ELFIN MARCH

HE LEADS THEM THROUGH

THE LAND."

Through the bracken, and over a brook, and on till they reach

a dell
Deep in the heart of an odorous wood, where night has cast
its spell ;
A mossy glade where the mounting moon but glances through clustering trees,
And there, on a stately cabbage throne, the leader sits at ease,
While thronged about on every side, his furry followers sing,
As sweetly from their chiming bells a blithe refrain they ring :

" We come from the vallev, we come from the hill,
At thy summons we rally to answer thy will.
We hail, we hail thee with joyous delight,
We '11 dance 'neath the trees in the mystic moonlight,
For we come from the valley, we come from the hill,
At thy summons we rally to answer t/iv will."

With a madder, merrier peal of bells, they gayly end their song,
The violin takes up the strain, and soon the little throng
Is whirling o'er the dewy sward to a waltz's dizzy measure,
And not a rabbit of them all but joins the dance with pleasure.
As round and round they wildly rlv, one slips upon the moss ;
Her partner still whirls gavly on, unconscious of his loss.
Thus many couples come to grief; exhausted, down they sink,
Their heads spin round with giddiness the while they wink and blink.

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

At last, of all the jolly throng, one couple 's left alone,

And now an impish spirit seems to rule the music's tone.

Fast and furious flies the bow, the antics grow more mad ;

Such flapping ears and twinkling feet, — 't would make a hermit glad;

Such leaps, and bounds, and capers queer, their comrades grow excited,

And ring their bells applaudingly, and cheer them on, delighted.

179

WE COME FROM THE VALLEY, WE COME FROM THE HILL.

At length the willful measures cease, the weary dancers pause,

And answer with triumphant smiles the well-deserved applause.

The fiddler now advances, the lucky pair are crowned,

As King and Queen of Rabbitland they '11 reign the whole year round.

Then some, of course, are envious, and mutter, "Are n't they proud! "

As the new-made monarchs proudly turn to greet the cheering crowd.

But when a stately air is played, all march up two by two,

i8o

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

Salute the royal couple, and for grace and favor sue.

A cheerful banquet now is served, composed of cabbage salad ;

(The way that cabbage disappeared would make a gardener pallid ! )

The kind old moon, upon the wane, looks down and smiles benign,

In low and mystic monotone murmur the oak and pine.

But see ! — once more the elfish lad shakes back his golden hair,

Draws bow across the singing strings. His summons cleaves the air.

[Dec.

"AND NOT A RABBIT OF THEM ALL BL'T JOINS THE DANCE WITH PLEASURE."

The eager rabbits upward spring and each one grasps his bell.
And now begin the queerest games within the dim-lit dell.
One little bunny, long of ear, and with most roguish eyes,
Sits quite erect, while over him to leap each comrade tries ;

1889.]

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

l8l

" [HE FIDDLER NOW ADVANCES, THE LUCKY PAIR ARE CROWNED.

And one falls unexpectedly upon his precious head,

And lies a moment not quite sure if he 's alive or dead.

Another turns a somersault just as he 's nearly over,

And finds pine-needles, as a bed, can not compare with clover.

"A CHEERFUL BANQUET NOW IS SERVED. COMPOSED OF CABBAGE SALAD."

182

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

"and now begin the queerest games within the dim-lit dei.l.

They play a royal game of " tag," and " hide-and-seek " comes after,

While all the dusky woods resound with peals of rabbit laughter.

Some form a ring and dance about their harebells stacked together,

One dares to tickle the monarch's ear with downy bits of feather,

And shakes with mirth unbounded, as his Majesty flaps and twitches, —

No lover of fun would have missed the sight for all Golconda's riches !

But now the music changes, the strain grows weirdly wild,

Then sinks, and almost dies away, in cadence soft and mild ;

A pause, and then an outburst so unrestrained and glad,

Each rabbit takes a partner and dashes off like mad.

And round and round, and to and fro, they gayly fly, until —

The tired old moon slips out of sight, and all is dark and still.

If-TFie-EABE^WERe-THe -|3w

By Francis Randall.

the little toddling babies

Were the makers of our lays,

You 'd find verses very different

In a thousand different ways.

The babes would be exalted,

And the rest of us appear

As the secondary creatures

Of a very different sphere.

Just imagine that the baby

Wrote the songs we here have shown

And gave them to the world at large

From his little baby throne :

Be kind to the baby,

For when thou art old

Who '11 nurse thee so tender as he, —

Who '11 catch the first accents that fall

thy tongue
Or laugh at thy innocent glee ?

from

Rock-a-bye, Papa,
On the tree-top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock ;
When the bough bends
The cradle will fall —
Down will come Papa
And cradle and all.
183

1 84

IF THE BABES WERE THE BARDS.

Bye, Mamma Bunting,

Baby 's gone a-hunting,

Gone to get a rabbit-skin

To wrap the Mamma Bunting in.

Oh, Baby, dear Baby, come home with me now,

The clock in the steeple strikes one ;

You said you were coming right in from the yard,

As soon as your mud-pie was done.

The fire 's gone out ; the house is all cold;

And Mother 's been watching since tea,

With poor Father Jimmy asleep by the fire,

And no one to help her but me.

DAISY'S CALENDAR.

By Daisy F. Barry.

■H;8 | ^H'^JF/O fig

\
1

-jfi-

Hfff^

rprpr

«w-rti

ID you ever keep a
calendar ? I have
kept one all this
year, and it has
given me so much
pleasure that I
have resolved to
keep one always
as long as I live.
I will tell you
how I came to keep it. For three or four years
past, my sister has been in correspondence with
the secretary of a society in which we are both
very much interested ; but she has been the
working member, for, although I am the elder,
I am never quite well.

One New Year's Eve I received a letter from
the secretary telling me that he wished me to
keep a calendar. " It does n't matter for us
older ones," he said, " for our lives are tinted
with the sober grays of evening ; but you others,
you young ones, who never know what is coming
to you, are as happy as the song-birds one min-
ute, and ready to break your hearts the next
because of sorrow and disappointment. Your
lives are like pictures with brilliant lights and
deep shadows contrasted.

" Now it is a fact that all of us have more
bright spots than shadows in our lives, especially
while we are young, but as we grow older we
do not believe it, perhaps because our sorrowful
moods are easier to remember than our joyful
ones ; but if you keep a record of the gleams
of gladness that brighten your life, you will be
astonished, when you look back, to find how
much happiness you have enjoyed, and then, too,
it will always be a pleasure to recall the memory
of past joys.

" The keeping of a calendar," he went on, " is
a very easy matter. All that you need is the
Vol. XVII.— 2i. 185

calendar, a clean pen, and a bottle of red ink.
Every evening you take out your calendar, and,
if the day has been a happy one, draw a red
line all around the date; if it brought you only
some gleams of gladness, make a red dot for
every gleam; and if it was a day of sorrow un-
relieved by any brightness, leave the date blank,
surrounded only by its own black line."

Well, of course I was delighted with the idea,
and also with the calendar and pen which ac-
companied the letter; and as New Year's Day
was a day of unalloyed gladness, although the
doctor kept me a close prisoner all the time, I
drew a red line all round the date.

Since then my brother has had a long illness,
and my mother broke down under the strain of
nursing him, and me, for I was ill too ; but for
all that, if you could only see how my calendar is
illuminated with red all through, you would be
convinced that my life is a happy one; and I do
really believe that it is all the brighter for my
calendar. It forces me to notice the bright mo-
ments that come every day, and which would
otherwise be lost in the shadows.

The calendar I have, however, was not in-
tended for " keeping." It does very well to
show which days were happy and which were
not, but there is no space for writing a word or
two to tell the cause of the pleasure or why
some of the dates are left blank ; but next year
there will, perhaps, be a calendar made expressly
for the use I have described. I suppose I am
the first who ever kept such a calendar. Keep-
ing a diary is quite another matter. There ought
to be a space with each date for a few words to
explain the causes of the brightness of some days,
and the colorlessness of others.

I hope that next year everybody will keep a
calendar, for I feel quite sure that all who do so
will find great pleasure in it.

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

By H. Butterworth.

'Glory in the Highest " be sung in an
anteroom or choir-gallery, this dialogue may be used
as a recitation, with musical accompaniment.

" Where have you come from, Mabel mine,
While the stars still shine, the stars still
shine,
With a happy dream in those eyes of thine,
Early, this Christmas morning ? "

" I 've just come back from Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the night in Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the stars in Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the music in Slumber-land,
Early, this Christmas morning."

" What did you see there in the night,

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
" I saw a stable and star-lamp's light,

Early, this Christmas morning.

" I saw a stable in Slumber-land,

And a little Babe with a snow-white hand,
And 'round the Babe the dumb beasts stand,
Early, this Christmas morning."

" What did you hear in Slumber-land,

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
" Music, Mother, a song divine,

Early, this Christmas morning."

186

TT<

\e • 9

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

I8 7

" What was the song that the voices sung,
When over the stable the low stars hung ? '

" I can almost hear it still in the sky,
Listen, listen, — the strain draws nigh !
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' "

" What else did you see in Slumber-land,
Mabel mine, Mabel mine? "

" I saw the shepherds listening stand,
Early, this Christmas morning."

: What said the shepherds thereon the plain ? "
' They touched their reeds and answered the strain

' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! '
When the angels ceased, the shepherds sung

' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! '
And the earth and sky with the anthem rung,
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' "

; O Mabel, Mabel, your dream was sweet,

And sweet to my soul is your story ;
Like the shepherd's song let our lips repeat
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' "

EDITORIAL NOTES.

" Please give us some more stories by Miss Alcott —
we want so much another long serial by Miss Alcott,"
was the request that came to us again and again from
hundreds of our young readers in the years lately flown ;
and again and again their beloved author complied, striv-
ing to meet their demand — in heart and will devoted to
her faithful work. And now that she can tell them no
more, a truer story than them all has been sent out to
the world by Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston — a
story told by her own earnest and inspiring life : " Louisa
May Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by
Ednah D. Cheney."

The book will endear her more than ever to thousands of
boys and girls, for in some respects it is like a new part
of " Little Women," appealing also to the now grown-up
generation of early admirers of the brave and good

" March " family. The pages contain two excellent por-
traits of Miss Alcott, and fac-similes of some of her letters.

J ack-'in-the- Pulpit, who has, this month, given his
two pages to Mr. Butterworth's " For Christmas Day,"
will greet his merry crowd again in the January number.

He bids us give you, all, his compliments and the
best wishes of the season. And he also asks us to correct
an error that slipped into his sermon last month. The
credit of those big Thanksgiving pumpkins, he says, be-
longs to Southern California, not to Nebraska. The
photograph that came to him had, by some oversight,
been wrongly inscribed — and he says no one can judge
merely by the expression of a pumpkin's face where in
the world it comes from. Everything depends upon its
being properly presented.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Tacoma, W. T.

My Dear St. Nicholas : You will consider me a
pretty large " boy," I fancy, to write letters to the St.
Nicholas, when I tell you that I am a full-grown man
of twenty, already in business. But I thought it might
interest your young readers to get a letter from this far
distant but most beautiful " City of Destiny," as it is
called. We — my brother and myself — have taken your
magazine ever since the first number was issued, and we
have every volume complete, neatly bound. So much do
we value it, that we shall continue subscribers as long
as we live, and we hope our children and grandchildren
may enjoy it as much as we do. You published, some
years ago, a letter we sent to you, as having been the Jirsi
children to make the ascent of Mount Marcy.the highest
peak of the Adirondacks, in 1877. I wish you had space
to publish all I should like to write about this wonder-
fully thriving city on the shores of Puget Sound, not very
far from Alaska, and the region made famous by the
Arctic exploring expeditions. I should like to interest
the children of the East in the beautiful Pacific Coast
country in this section of the land, so wonderful in its
developments, so fertile in resources.

I hope to attempt the ascent of Mount Tacoma, over
fourteen thousand feet high and always snow-capped,
and, if I do, will give you my experience.

I will just mention that there are few, if any, birds
here ; no cats except such as are brought from other
places, and a scarcity of dogs.

But I have taken up too much space already, although
there is much of absorbing interest to young and old that
I could write about from this distant part of our Union.

Very sincerely, your "old" boy, W. A. B .

MORRISTOWN, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas : Morristovvn is a very pretty
and healthy place, about thirty miles from New York ;
and there are many beautiful places here. There is a
very fine girls' school, which I attend.

I will now tell you about my pets. I have one kitten
and three turtles. My kitten, "Bright Eyes," is a small,
gray striped kitten. My turtles are "Apollo," "Diana,"
and "Venus " Apollo is an orange and black turtle.
I have not tamed him very well yet, and he is quite

cross. Diana is yellow and black, and exceedingly gentle,
and feeds out of my hands. Venus is my little water-
turtle. His back is black, with small, bright orange spots
on it, and underneath it has three stripes, two black and
one a sort of pinkish orange. He also feeds out of my
hands. Turtles like to eat all kinds of berries, meat, and
some vegetables. They sleep very soundly, and some-
times snore. Your constant reader, K .

New River, White Sulphur, Va.
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, eleven years
old, and I have been spending a month at these Springs
with my mother and father, and my three brothers and
my sister Grace. The Indians used to call the New
River "The River of Death." It is so dangerous, though
very beautiful. Here it flow's through cliffs three hun-
dred feet high. They are of perpendicular gray rock,
and clothed with lovely vines, and, with dark cedars
springing up in every nook, are just like huge ruined
castles. At the foot of the cliffs the river runs so deep it
has never been sounded. Seven miles from here is Moun-
tain Lake — a salt lake three thousand feet above the
level of the sea — at the top of all the mountains, and from
the top of " Bald Rnob," one of them, you can see five
States. When St. Nicholas came here this month, we
each of us were willing to take care of our two-year-old
brother three hours, for the sake of reading it. And
Mother said she wished it would come every day. She
did not think we would be like the little girl who became
so sick of Christmas. The presents this St. Nicholas
brings of splendid stories are so much more durable than
those of the other St. Nick.

Affectionately, your friend, Anna C. S .

Dunmore, Pa.
My Dear Friend St. Nicholas: I have intended
for quite a long time to tell you about my "Mother
Goose " scrap-book. My first idea of it came when I
read the article in the August number, for 1SS3. It was
called " Home-made Mother Goose," and proposed that
all who were weary of pasting their advertisement cards
in books, should make a book of linen, and use cards and

THE LETTER-BOX.

189

parts of them cut out, to illustrate the " Mother Goose "
melodies. Well, I concluded to try it, and only now, in
1SS9, is my book completed. To begin with, I made a
book out of paper-muslin, which had twenty-two leaves,
and I used but one side of the page. It was no easy
matter, for I often waited months for a particular part
I needed. My friends all remembered me, and looked
out for figures. I remember, in the rhyme, " One, two,
buckle my shoe," when I came to " Eleven, twelve, toil
and delve," I could find nothing that was suited for it.
At last I found a card, of some children playing on the
sea-shore. I put two rhymes on a page, except when
they were long. Now, I did not think that the book
would be very satisfactory without the words ; so I
printed in the rhyme with water-colors. I soon found
that red and blue were the best to work with. It was
rather hard to use a brush on the muslin, for, unless great
care was taken, the letters would be dauby. The words
are printed right in with the picture, around it, and all
sides of it.

"Climbing up the Golden Stairs" was very popular at
that time, so here I used my darky cards. I illustrated
the first verse. The " golden stairs " are pieces of gilt
paper, pasted in like steps, which go up to the top of the
page. One of the darkies is stepping up, playing on a
tambourine. A little fellow is falling off the last step.
He looks exceedingly surprised; while 'Aunt Dinah"
is traveling slowly and surely upward. The " Dude" is
as dudish as one could wish, while "Old Peter "is ready
to hand you " the ticket," which happens to be a pass on
the D. L. and W. R. R., over" Hoboken Ferry." I had
such a time to find any " half a dollar," but a friend pro-
cured a pictured one from a bank-book, which " Sambo "
offers in his outstretched hand. At last, last winter I
finished it, and had it bound with a dark red, flexible
cover. I named it " Pluckings from Mother Goose, by
One of Her Goslings," and I dedicated it to my little
sister, Nan, and her large darky doll, "Topsy."

We children enjoy you so much, and never get tired
of reading over the old stories. I wish that Mrs. Dodge
would write us another story. Hers are so enjoyable.
We all liked the story that has just finished, "A Bit of
Color," and agree that " Betty " must have been a lovely
girl ; one we should like to know.

The town of Dunmore is two miles from Scranton.
We have two different lines of electric cars running into
the town, which make it seem very near fo Scranton.
Our ugly-looking culm piles are being utilized as
"plants" for the making of electricity. When we go
away, and see the " horse-cars," they seem very much
"behind the times."

I would like to know whether any one else tried the
" Mother Goose " scrap-book, and with what success.

Well, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, and with many
wishes for a long and happy life to you, I am,

Your sincere friend, Helen M .

Alameda, Cal.

Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to write a letter
to my dear and esteemed friend, St. Nicholas, hoping
that its constant readers may see this in the " Letter-
box." I am a man near fifty-eight years old, and its
readers may not think a man of my age should write a
letter to a magazine of its class. I like the story of
" Grandpapa's Coat," and " Laetitia and the Redcoats,"
which we understand to be the British of those times.
I shall always esteem it as my home friend. I have
several volumes and will have them bound. I remain,
Your constant reader, Josephus P .

P. S. — If proper, place this letter in "Letter-box."
I enjoyed the two stories above, and could n't help
reading them over and over again.

Lakeside, Lake Ontario, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: We — a family of six — are
spending the four summer months on the shore of
beautiful blue Ontario. It is a quiet place, about forty
miles from Niagara Falls, with a dozen or so cottages,
and a low, rambling hotel among the trees.

My mother, sister, and myself are very fond of walking,
and take long tramps, seeing the country and the people,
which latter we often find amusing. Our longest tramp
was to Albion, a town ten miles away, and back the same
day. We were only three and a half hours going in, but
longer coming back.

We went one day to see an old lady who still spins
and weaves her own linen and cotton. She was im-
mensely amused to learn where we lived, and said, " To
think o' comin' all the way from Washington, to go to
the mouth o' Johnson's Creek ! You must ha' been hard
up ! " She thought the President lives in the Capitol.

Another old lady told Mother she had never been away
from the farm a day since she was married, but added,
proudly, that she " was born south of here." Inquiry
revealed the fact that she " had been born on a farm two
miles south of here," and only left it for her present
home.

We have found several odd localisms, one of which is,
" quite a few," meaning a large number, and another,
" right smart and away of a walk," means a long distance.

In June, I made a study of tadpoles, putting several into
an improvised aquarium. They were almost black, about
an inch long, and it was very interesting to see first the
hind legs come out, then the fore legs, and, finally, the tail
dwindle to nothing. At that stage they were brown, with
dark spots, and barely half an inch long. I let them go,
and they hopped round the road and fields. Their com-
rades in the little pond had all developed, and were
likewise hopping in the fields.

Now, a few weeks ago, as I was watching the odd
water-animals there, I saw two gray-green tadpoles, or
pollywogs, nearly three inches long, with undeveloped
legs. And, recently, a brilliant green froglet, about an
inch and a half long, has come up to greet me. Can any
country boy or girl tell me whether the smaller ones were
toads ? And which is the correct name — tadpoles or
pollywogs ?

If I have made my letter too long, dear St. Nicholas,
as I fear, could you please find room for the last part ?
I was going to write to " Jack-in-the-Pulpit," and ask
him about the " tads," but he seemed to be taking a
vacation with the rest of his congregation.

It is needless to tell you how much you are enjoyed,
from Grandpa to the youngest. With best wishes for
St. Nicholas, from Edith F. R .

Orange, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas: We have taken your charming
magazine for seven or eight years, since I was only four
years old. That was while we were in Germany. How
glad we were to see it every month, and how we did
enjoy " Lord Fauntleroy " ! Some of our German and
English friends enjoyed the magazine, too, very much,
and since we came back we sometimes send it over to
.Munich. I studied drawing there, and I hope, some
day, to be able to illustrate for dear St. Nicholas.

This spring we set a hen on ducks' eggs ; only one
came out, and the mother took care of it as long as she
was shut up in a coop. When the mother was let out,
she left her little duck of three weeks. Another hen,
with seven chickens, at once went to the little duck's
coop and took care of it at night, and took it about with
her family all day. We thought she was so kind, but to
our surprise, after ten days, when she had taught the
duck to look after her chickens, she left them to the
entire care of the little orphan nurse. We found that it

190

THE LETTER-BOX.

was the duck that deserved praise, for, although she is
full-grown now, she never goes around with the other
ducks, but still takes care of these now large chickens,
and sleeps in their coop at night. Is that not a remark-
able duck ?

Your devoted reader, G. B. C .

having been in danger so much as she minded her hair
being burned off. Now, this is all I remember. So,
good-bye.

I remain, your affectionate reader,

Elizabeth Payne S .

St. Paul, Minn.

Dear St. Nicholas : I wonder if any of your little
readers ever had such a nice present as mine on my
ninth birthday, — a full set of St. Nicholas, hand-
somely bound ! That was a year ago, and I think there
has not been a day since when they have not been used
by my brother or myself. It would be hard to tell what
we like best. We like it all.

I live fourteen hundred miles from my grandma's and
grandpa's, uncles' and aunties', but I go to see them nearly
every year. The boys and girls have great fun there in
the winter-time. We never think of staying in the house
here because it is cold. If we have an ice palace this
winter, I will send any of your subscribers, who will
send me a stamp, a good picture of the palace.

I hope to take you as long as I live, and then leave
you to my children.

Truly your friend, Marion W .

Constantinople, Turkey.

Dear St. Nicholas : A little while ago I went to a
Greek christening, and I thought that perhaps you would
like to hear about it. Sometimes it takes place in a
house and sometimes in a church. The one I saw was
in the house. This is the way it was done :

First, two priests came in with a man, who carried a
large metal thing on his back which looked something
like a bath. This was the font. He put it down in the
middle of the room and filled it with warm water and
oil. While he was doing this, the priests let down their
hair and put on their robes. Then one took the baby,
which was quite naked, and dipped it three times in the
font, saying prayers at the same time. After that it was
taken out and put into a lot of clean, new linen and given
to the godfather, who walked three times round the
font with the child in his arms, while the priests scat-
tered incense about and said some more prayers. Then
the mother took the baby and bound it up tightly in long
bands, tied a little muslin cap on its head, and put it to
bed. At the beginning each guest received a lighted
candle to hold ; and when it was over they gave every
one a little piece of money which had a hole in it and a
piece of blue and white ribbon tied to it. You are ex-
pected to pin this upon your dress till you go away.
They gave the guests sweets. Sometimes instead of
money they have little silver crosses. The godfather or
godmother provides everything — the baby's dress and
clothes, the sweets and crosses, and also gives the baby
a present. The candles are rather dangerous, as they
give them to little children as well as grown people. A
little child behind me burned off some of her front hair.
She did not burn very much off, as I caught sight of her
just in time, and I told the mother, who was very much
disgusted. But she did not seem to mind the child's

Mardin, Turkey in Asia.

My Dear St. Nicholas : I am twelve years old, and
have taken you for three years, and enjoy you very much.
To get to me, you have to ride on horseback six hundred
miles, for the post is brought by horses from Samsoon, on
the Black Sea, to Mardin, and takes them from nine to
ten days. From where our houses stand, we can see
the plain of Mesopotamia stretching away to the south,
as far as the eye can reach, and hundreds of miles far-
ther. A few months ago a party of us went down on the
plain to a village named Dara — supposed to have been
built by Darius, the great king. It is all in ruins now.
We saw the remains of immense buildings. One was
said to have been the palace of the king. Another was
entirely underground. It is thought it was a prison.
There was the ruin of a reservoir large enough to supply
the whole city with water during a long siege. The city
was surrounded by a great wall, high and wide, and out-
side of the wall was a large moat. Right through the
city is the bed of a large river, which is now but a small
stream. Across it is a bridge that has lasted to this time.
It has two tracks, as if they were worn by chariot wheels.
On the tops of many of the ruins were storks' nests. There
is a small village there now. The people that live in it
are all Moslems. It took us — or rather we took — two
days to ride there; it is only eighteen miles from here.
But we went out for a good time, and did not hurry.
I have an Arabian colt, only two years old, that I ride
nearly every day; his name, in Arabic, is " Karrumful,"
meaning Cloves. My sister Minnie, four years younger
than myself, has a little white Bagdad donkey named
" Filfil," meaning Pepper.

Lest you get tired of me, I will bid you good-bye for
this time, always wishing, dear St. Nicholas, the best
of success. I am ever your true friend,

Nellie E. T .

We thank the young friends whose names here follow
for pleasant letters received from them : Eunice 0., Ella
G. S., Blanche Keat, John D. M., Adele and Jessie,
Alice Putnam, Marion Clothier, May N. H., Marguerite
B., Gertrude C. P., Freddy R., Marion E. S., " Evie,"
Ernestine Robbins, Anna FitzGerald, Allan Moorfield,
C. L. Darling, Frank D. C, Sacka de T. Jones, Maria
de T. Jones, Allerton Cushman Crane, Daisy A. Sylla,
K. B., Lola Barrows, Fannie L. H., Matchie Willing-
ham, Etta Levy, Lillie Jacobs, Kathleen Howard, Mabel
Maynard. Patty Gregg, P. L. D., Isabel C, W. Palmer,
Olive Knibbs, L. L. W, Alta Fellows and Ruth Myers,
" Ethel," Nora Walker, E. C. Wood, Mary B. Tartt, Marie
Buchanan, Sadie F., Lionel Hein, Kate J., Anna N. H.,
Eloise and Lucienne, Maude D., Daisy S., Lizzie W.
Leary, Hattie S. Fitch, R. M. and A. F., Bessie Long-
bridge, Mary Caldwell, Ravmond Buck, Maud C. Max-
well.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE NOVEMBER NUMBER.

Rhomboid. Across: i. Porte. 2. Harms. 3. Games.

4. Peris. 5. Tenor.

Pi. 'T is the time

When the chime
Of the season's choral band is ringing out.
Smoky brightness fills the air,
For the light winds everywhere
Censers full of flowery embers swing about.
There is sweetness that oppresses,
As a tender parting blesses;
There 's a softened glow of beauty,
As when Love is wreathing Duty ;
There are melodies that seem
Weaving past and future into one fair dream.
Lucy Larcom, " The Indian Summer."
Quadruple Acrostic. First row, demeans ; second,
oversee; fifth, accuses; sixth, leeside. Cross-words:
1. Dorsal. 2. Evince. 3. Menace. 4. Erebus. 5. Assist.
6. Needed. 7. Setose.
Word-square. 1. Doses. 2. Obole. 3. Solid. 4. Eliza.

5. Sedan. Charade. Whole-some.

Numerical Enigma.

There 's not a flower on all the hills,
The frost is on the pane.

Illustrated Acrostic. Bryant. Cross-words :
I. caBbage. 2. haRness. 3. toYshop. 4. crAvats.
5. caNteen. 6. buTtons. Riddle. Pillow.

Diagonal Puzzle. Thomson. 1. Tempest. 2. tHroned.
3. moOrish. 4. diaMond. 5. modeSty. 6. kingdOm.
7. ruffiaN.

Broken Words. Thanksgiving, Old Homestead.
1. Turn Over. 2. Hire Ling. 3. And Dote. 4. Night
Hawk. 5. Keels On. 6. Sides Man. 7. Gods End.
S. Inter Scribe. 9. Vesper Tine. 10. Imp End. 11. Not
Able. 12. Glad Den.

Double Acrostic. Primals, Capratina ; finals,
Dindymene. Cross-words : I. CarotiD. 2. Alfierl.
3. PenguiN. 4. RumoreD. 5. AbilitY. 6. TransoM.
7. ImpingE. 8. NankeeN. 9. AndantE.

Proverb Puzzle.

May good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both.

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., t,^ East
Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from
Arthur Gride — Paul Reese — Maude E. Palmer — J. Russell Davis — Pearl F. Stevens — A Family Affair —
Jamie and Mamma — Mamma, Aunt Martha, and Sharley — Nellie L. Howes — Maxie and Jackspar — " Wit and
Humor" — Blanche and Fred — Helen C. McCleary — Jo and I — Henry Guilford — Ida C. Thallon — Mathilde,
Ida, and Alice.

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from J. Norman
Carpenter, 1 — L. T., 1 — Emma Sydney, S — Arthur B. Lawrence, 4 — M. E. W., 1 — Clara and Emma, 1 — M.
H., 1 — Papa and Honora, 1 — Susy I. Myers, 2 — May Cadwallader, 1 — Guy H. Purdy, 3 — Sadie and
Mary F., 2 — M. H. V., 5 — Kitty, Bessie, and Eugene, 3 — R. M. and A. F. , I — Elsie Rosenbaum, 2 —
" Wamba, Prince Charming, and Molly Bawn," 5 — John \V. Frothingham.Jr., 4 — " Karl and Queen Elizabeth," 8 —
Gita and Pink, 9 — Clara and 0.,4 — Charlie Reta and Ernie Sharp, 4 — " We Two," 8 — B. F. R., 9 — Sissie Hun-
ter, 3 — Marion S. Dumont, 2 — J. M. Wright, 5 — "May and 79," S — Irvin V. G. Gillis, 10 — Albert E. Clay,
10 — "All of Us," 3 — Jim, Tom, and Charlie, 10 — Effie K. Talboys, 7 — Carrie Holzman, 2 — Gert and Fan, 6 —
G. Goldfrank, 7 — Adrienne Forrester, 5 — Nagrom, 3 — Katie Guthrie, 3 — Eleuthera Smith, 5 — A. A. Smith, 1 —
Three American Readers, 4 — Kendrick Family, 1 — No Name, Conn., 5 — A. W. Bartlett, 1 — G. Harwood, 6.

A PENTAGON.

I. In muscular. 2. Reverence. 3. Songs or tunes.
4. A wooden instrument used for cleaning flax. 5. Gold

coins of the United States.
7. To discover.

6. To become unconscious.
F. s. F.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The letters in each of the following thirteen groups
may be transposed so as to form one word. When these
are rightly guessed they will answer to the following
definitions: 1. Relating to color. 2. Half a poetic verse.
3. A name for buttercups, given them by Pliny, because
the aquatic species grow where frogs abound. 4. Just.
5- Benumbed. 6. Shaped like a top. 7. The summer

solstice, June 21. S. Mineral pitch. 9. Layers of earth
lying under other layers. 10. The more volatile parts of
substances, separated by solvents. 11. Accused. 12. The
goddess of discord. 13. The utmost point.

1. I match roc.

2. She hit mic.

3. I run clan U.

4. A limp rat, I.

5. Fed, I set up.

6. I run at Bet.

7. Rimm mused.

8. Put a sham L.

9. As tar tubs.

10. I rust cent.

11. Dime peach.

12. Cari is odd.

13. Exlry time.

When the above letters have been rightly transposed,
and the words placed one below the other, the primals
will spell a festal time, and the finals will spell an anni-
versary of the Church of England, held on the 2Sth of
December. F. s. F.

191

192

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

Each of the six pictures in the above illustration may
be described by a word of five letters. When these are
rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the
order here given, the letters from I to 20 (as indicated in
the accompanying diagram) will spell the name of an
eminent scholar and divine who was born December 13,
1S15.

DOUBLE DIAMOND.

ACROSS: i. In Chinaman. 2. A pert townsman. 3.
An old word meaning the crown of the head. 4. The
Indian name for a lake. 5. A prize given at Harvard
University. 6. A masculine nickname. 7. In Chinaman.

Downward: i. In Chinaman. 2. A capsule of a
plant. 3. A printer's mark showing that something
is interlined. 4. Men enrolled for military discipline.
5. A fibrous product of Brazil. 6. The first half of a
word meaning very warm. 7. In Chinaman.

H. and B.

DOUBLE FINAL ACROSTIC.

All of the cross-words are of equal length. When
they have been rightly guessed and placed one below the

other, in the order here given, the
last row of letters, reading up-
ward, will spell something often
read at this time of the year ; the
row next to the last, reading downward,
will spell something often overhead at this
time of the year.

Cross-words: 1. Flourishing. 2. A
company of singers. 3. A rope with a
noose. 4. The "Wizard of the North."
5. Baffles. 6. Small, insect-eating mam-
mals. 7. A great artery of the body. 8.
A maxim or aphorism. 9. Silica.

dot peerybingle.
PI.

Yaunjsar sklapser dole,
Erarubfy strigtel,
Charm mosce ni, a dydum clods,
Ripal boss nad stirett ;
Crangtik does reh dribse-daim yam,
Slubseh nuje wiht seros stewe ;
Neht teh sleml fo wen-monw yha,
Enth het sewva fo delgon hewta,
Tenh eth Selentin fo Ian ;
Hent teh rawzid thmon fo lal ;
Neth het seridfie swogl, dan enth
Cashstrim scome ot hater aniga.

DIAGONAL.

The diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner to the
lower right-hand corner, spell the surname of a famous
musician born in 1 756.

Cross-words: i. Central. 2. A body of about five
hundred soldiers. 3. An enchanter. 4. A country of
North America. 5. To expand. 6. A parcel.

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK.

Z~MrM l! %

tW* A

itiai

1 ^€,

READY FOR A NEW YEAR.

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

JANUARY, 1890.

No.

By Harriet Prescott Spofford.

IGH in the mountains where we went

To have our Christmas among the snows,

The far white slopes stretched up the sky-
Where the young moon sank and the great stars rose ;

And with every gust of the long slow wind
The forests of fir from root to crown

Made murmuring music, and softly shook
A cloud of sifted silver down.

But round the hearth of the room within,

Like the cherub throng of some heavenly choir,

The children clustered, and held their breath
While their father lighted the yule-log fire.

The little flames crackled and crisped and curled,
And sweet were the cries from the happy crew,

As higher and higher the blue smoke twirled,
And then what a blaze the great log threw,

196

THE YULE-LOGS SONG.

[Jan.

What a glory swept up the chimney shaft, '

And vanished into the vast night-blue !
And the rafters started out of the gloom '

With all their festooning apple-strings,
With the silver skin of their onion-stalks,

Their crook-necked squash, and their herby
things.
And the gleam glanced high on the powder-
horn.

And the king's-arm flung back a startled light,

Thank God for Christmas!" the father said,
And the mother, dropping her needles, turned,

Thank God for Christmas, for roof, for fire!"
She answered him, and the yule-log burned.

On roared the billowy flames ; the sparks
In shining showers up the darkness whirled ;

And the sap on the great ends stood like beads,
And bubbled and simmered and hummed and
purled,

'THEIR FATHER LIGHTED THE YULE-LOG FIRE.

And the face of the clock was like the moon
Red in the mists of the August night,

While all the depth of the dusky room

Was full of the firelight's blush and bloom.

The grandame's hair like the aureole
Of any saint in a picture showed,

And a wreath of roses about her there
The frolicking children's faces glowed.

And its thin note quavered and swelled and
sighed,
And tuned and twittered and rippled along.

The worm is dying," the children cried.

" Oh, hush! " said the grandame; " you do it

wrong, — "
And they bent to listen, all eager-eyed, —

" Hush, 't is the yule-log singing his song ! "

THE YULE-LOGS SONG.

197

And the place with a sudden warble rang,
And this is the song the yule-log sang :

■' Far in forest glades I grew,
Fed on draughts of noontide dew ;
Passed the spotted snake's low lair,
Passed the browsing of the bear,
Fresher branches thrust each year,
Passed the antler of the deer,
Till space and sun and solitude
Made me king of all the wood.

" Then, my lower branches laid
In a mighty depth of shade,
Glad my tops the sun descried
Coursing up the great earth's side,
Knew the cloud's phantasmal forms,
Wrestled with a thousand storms,
Proudly bore victorious scars,
And measured lances with the stars !

" Twice a hundred years the snow
Her white and glimmering veils did throw
Round me ; moonbeams touched my spires
With a light of frosty fires ;
Knee-deep in the summer fern
Twice a hundred years return,
And into leaf my full plumes burst
Green as when they bourgeoned first.

" Spices of the sun-soaked wood
Rose about me where I stood ;
Gums their richest resin cast
On every wind that wandered past ;
Blossoms shed their petals sweet
In balmy drifts about my feet ;
Berried fragrance filled the gloom,
And the wild grape's ambrosial bloom.

'• Here the bee went blundering by
Honey-drunk, the butterfly
Flittered, — ah, what songs I heard
Shrilling from the building bird !
How all little life did house
Securely in my sheltering boughs
That drew the green walls close when there
The great hawk hung in upper air !

" Still the dawn, the star-flame old,
That steeped me through and through, I

hold,
The gladness wrought in every root
While the wood-thrush blew his flute,
And music ordering all my art
With sorrow fit to break the heart
When the summer night was still
And far off mourned the whippoorwill.

" Now, my wealth of centuried hours, —
Memory of summer showers,
Bloom and song and leaf and wing, —
Upon this yule-tide hearth I fling.
All the life that filled my year
I bring back to the Giver here.
Burning gladly in His name
The hoarded sunshine of my flame ! "

And the children listened, but all was still ;

A core of heat was the yule-log's heart,
And into the ashes the live coals dropped

Like rubies that flash and break apart ;
And the shadows skimmed up the darkening
wall,

And the wind brought a clamor of music near,

And the stars themselves bent down to hear,

While out in the valley far below
The peal of the Christmas-bells rang clear.

PS?

MAY BARTLETT'S STEPMOTHER.

By Nora Perry.

Chapter IV.

>ATHY BOND was
spending the first va-
■* cation of the autumn
-.. with her " dear May,"
as she had been in
the habit of calling
Ma}- since the inti-
macy that had sprung up between them.

The girls who lived at a distance from Hill-
side generally remained at the seminary through
the shorter vacations. Cathy Bond's home was
two days' journey from the school. The Macy
sisters and Susy Morris also lived at a distance,
and the four hitherto had spent their vacations
together at the seminary. Cathy's invitation
had come about in this way :

" I 'm glad I don't have to spend my vaca-
tions at the seminary, as some of the girls do,"
May had happened to say one day to her father.
Mrs. Bartlett, who was present, had looked up
and remarked quickly :

" It must be very forlorn for them." And
when May had answered with emphasis, " It
is forlorn," Mrs. Bartlett had surprised her by
saying :

" Why don't you invite one of them to spend
the week with you ? "

" But — but," May stammered, " Papa does n't
like it."

" Papa does n't like what ? " then inquired
Mr. Bartlett, waking up from his absent-mind-

edness. May explained, and related how she
had begged for this privilege of hospitality be-
fore, only to be told that it could n't be. Her
father laughed at the recital, and then astonished
her by this speech :

" Oh, well, that was last year ! I could n't
have two giddy young things turned loose in
the house then ; I should have been totally
neglected, if not trampled upon. Now, you
see, I 've somebody to be company for me,
while you neglect me."

" Oh, Papa ! do you mean, that now — "

'■Yes; now, if you like," nodding and smil-
ing at her.

" And I hope," said Mrs. Bartlett, smiling
also, " that you will invite that pretty, bright-
faced Cathy Bond."

Cathy Bond ! The color in May's cheeks
and her embarrassed look showed Mrs. Bart-
lett that something was amiss, and she imme-
diately remarked :

" Of course it makes no difference to me, my
dear, which of your friends you invite, but I re-
membered this one particularly, and I thought
her your favorite, from seeing her more with you
than the others."

" Oh, yes ; yes, she is," was May's rather
confused reply.

And this is the way it came about that Cathy
spent the vacation with her " dear May."

" After she has talked as she has, I should n't
think she 'd feel much like going there to visit,"
Joanna exclaimed indignantly to her sister Elsie.

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

And at last something of this kind was said to
Cathy herself, who retorted that she was going
to visit May at May's invitation, and not the step-
mother. Perhaps it was this last sharp word
that sharpened Cathy's temper, and sent her on
her visit with her prejudices more alive than ever.

" That pretty, bright-faced girl," Mrs. Bart-
lett had said; and Cathy was all that, — pretty
and bright-faced ; but when she sat at table
that first night of her visit, Mrs. Bartlett felt a
vague sense of disappointment in her. She
had seen her only a moment or two at different
times when she had called upon May, and then
her prettiness and brightness had impressed Mrs.
Bartlett very favorably. But as she sat at table,
there was a sort of forward smartness, a too self-
possessed, grown-up-ish air in what she said and
did, to suit fastidious, well-bred people.

" Oh, dear," thought Mrs. Bartlett, " what a
pity! — and such a nice-looking girl," and then,
" perhaps this is one reason why May has such
a forbidding way with her."

And while these thoughts were passing
through Mrs. Bartlett's mind, Cathy with her
sharpened temper was pluming herself upon
her manners, and upon taking a stand against
the stepmother. " 1 shall be polite," she had
said to herself; " but I shall not be sweet and
cordial, and I shall let them see that May has
a real, independent friend."

Mr. Bartlett who at first had begun to try
and make " the little girl," as he called her, feel
comfortable by saying pleasant, kind things to
her, soon gave up his endeavor, and as he did
so, he looked at her with one of his queer
satirical expressions. May caught the look and
grew hot, then cold. She knew perfectly what
it meant — that he was half-displeased, and half-
amused. What she did not know, was that he
was thinking just then, "What in the world led
Margaret to suggest that piece of trumpery, as
a visitor for May?" But as he ceased his en-
' deavors to make " the little girl comfortable,"
another idea flashed into his mind. It would be
a saving grace to let May see, as he could make
her see, what a second-rate simpleton — for so
he judged then — this friend was. The idea
was too tempting not to be acted upon, and
suddenly addressing her with a deference he
might have shown to an older person, he drew

199

the girl on to display — as she supposed — her
knowledge and brilliancy. Instead, however,
of these qualities, Cathy only displayed her
foolishness and forwardness, behaving in fact in
a very second-rate manner indeed. " Oh,"
thought poor May, " I would n't have believed
that Cathy could go on like this. She can be
so sensible. And Papa — Papa is too bad."

She looked appealingly at him, but he did
not notice her. She then tried to stop Cathy
by asking her a question about school matters.
But Cathy would not be stopped. Still she
rattled on, perking up her little chin, and laugh-
ing, until May began to feel very much ashamed,
and to wish that something would happen, or

CATHY ADORNS HERSELF FOR THE PARTY- (SEE PAGE 204.)

somebody would come to the rescue. And some-
body did come to the rescue ; and this somebody
was — the stepmother.

Mrs. Bartlett had been observant of every-
thing — of her husband's "mischief," as she
termed it, of Cathy's silliness, and of May's
annoyance.

" What possesses Edward," she thought, " to
draw out that child's absurdities like this ? " And
then she echoed May's thought, " It is too bad
of him." But, like May, she did n't understand
his motive. Yet if she had understood, I think
she would have done the same thing. And this

200

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Jan.

is what she did. As she saw her husband, with
that look of mischief on his face, about to ad-
dress Miss Cathy again, she turned to him with a
sudden question relating to an important matter
in which he was interested. His attention once
caught, she held it, though there was an amused
sparkle in his eyes that showed he was perfectly
well aware of his wife's purpose. But the pur-
pose was served, and May drew a sigh of relief.
But Cathy was not so well pleased to be thus
robbed of what she considered such flattering

interested in a book, from which he now and
then read passages to his wife. He took not
the slightest notice of " the children," as he
would have called them. Disappointed by this
neglect, Cathy looked about her for some amuse-
ment, and as she saw the open piano in the
further corner of the large room, she whispered
to May that they might try one of their duets.
" Oh, no, no, not now ; we '11 try to-morrow,"
poor May whispered back. But Cathy could
not or would not understand, and saying care-

■*&k&«^.i '

" CATHY RATTLED ON UNTIL MAY BEGAN TO FEEL ASHAMED.

attention, and responded rather absently to
May's low-voiced attempts to talk with her;
and, after they had left the table, when May
tried to draw her into her own special sanctum
— a charming room full of books and pictures
and games — Cathy said decidedly :

" Oh, let 's go into the parlor; I think it 's so
pleasant where there 's an open fire."

But if she fancied she was again to receive
the attention that had so flattered her, she was
mistaken. Mr. Bartlett became absorbingly

lessly, "Well, let me look at the music," led the
way to the instrument. Once there, she did not
content herself with looking ; she must just try
whether she could remember this or that, she had
taken for a lesson. " This or that " turned out
to be a few bars of various compositions, not of
the highest order, and played without particular
skill. May stole a glance down the room at her
father. Mr. Bartlett was fond of music, and had
some knowledge of it, and a cultivated taste. May
saw him twist his mouth into a comical smile,

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

20I

and shake his head ruefully as he looked at
Cathy.

" Come, let us play ' Halma ' ; I have a new
board," she whispered to Cathy.

But Cathy just then struck into a gay waltz,
and banged away with all her might. As she
played the last bars, Mrs. Bartlett approached.

" That was one of the Strauss waltzes, was n't
it?" she asked Cathy politely; and then she
began to speak of the great Peace Jubilee in
Boston, when Johann Strauss had come all the
way from Austria to play, and to lead the great
orchestra in the colosseum that was erected for
the jubilee.

" I was about your age then," she said, look-
ing at Cathy, " and I never had had such a
perfectly lovely time as I had then." As she
went on describing that fairy-like structure,
with its glass roof, covering so many acres,
and the bands from England and Germany and
France and Austria and Ireland, that came over
to America to play their own music in celebra-
tion of the peace of the world, May leaned for-
ward, spell-bound by th» description and all
it brought before her, and even Cathy forgot
herself for the time. After this, Mr. Bartlett
called out:

"Margaret, play something for us;" and
Margaret played some beautiful selections from
Schumann and Beethoven, and then, at the
last, she sang a good-night song by Robert
Franz ; and with the concluding words, " Good-
night, good-night," she rose, smiling, from her
seat, and as at that instant the little clock on
the mantel struck half-past nine, May knew
that it was time to go to bed, and rose also,
expecting Cathy to follow her example ; but
Cathy hung back, and began to speak.

" Do you know any waltzes that you could
play for us to dance, Mrs. Bartlett ? " she
asked. Before Mrs. Bartlett could reply, Mr.
Bartlett had come forward, and was saying,
" Good-night, children," and in the next mo-
ment he was asking his wife to play a Hun-
garian march for him.

May was only too glad to get away. Once
upstairs by themselves, Cathy would be herself
again, she reasoned. But there were several
things rankling in Cathy's mind, not the least
of which was that " Good-night, children," and
Vol. XVII.— 2;.

when May, with a little skip of relief, entered
the chamber, and said cheerfully :

" I don't feel a bit sleepy ; do you, Cathy ? "
Cathy answered sharply :

" I ? No ; I could have waltzed for half
an hour."

The color flew to May's face.

" But, Cathy, it is half-past nine, half an hour
later than I usually go to bed, and you told me
that nine was the seminary hour."

" Well, this is n't the seminary. I did n't
expect to visit a school," sarcastically.

May had to remember that Cathy was her
guest, and that she must be polite to her, so
she said :

"I 'm so sorry, Cathy. But — she — will play
for us to dance to-morrow, I dare say."

" ' She ' — oh, that 's what you call her ? I 've
wondered what it was ! What do you call her
when you speak to her ? "

"I — I — don't say anything. I wait until
she is looking at me. I — "

Cathy went off into a giggle.

" Oh, it 's too funny. I must tell the girls
when I get back that you only speak of her as
' she,' and wait until she looks at you before — "

" Oh, don't, Cathy."

" Don't what ? "

" Don't make fun — like that — to the girls."

" Well, I should just like to know what has
come over you, May Bartlett ; but I know well
enough. She has got the upper hand of you
in your own home, that 's clear."

The color in May's face deepened.

" How can you talk so foolishly, Cathy ? "

" I 'm not talking foolishly. I saw it at the
very first, when we were at the tea-table. What
did she do when your father was so nice and
pleasant to me but stop him and make him talk
to her ! And then she would n't let him come
near us in the parlor, but came herself after
a while, and told us stories about that old ju-
bilee. I 've heard my mother tell about it a
hundred times."

" Oh, Cathy ! you don't know — "

May stopped. She could n't tell Cathy that
she had been saved twice : once from making
herself ridiculous, and again from being an
annoyance, by — yes — by the stepmother. And
it was the stepmother who had encouraged her

202

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Jan.

visit, who had spoken of her as pretty and
bright-faced, when Cathy had been so bitter
against her, and, worst of all, at the very time
when she had been really doing her a kind-
ness; — but what was it Cathy was saying?

" I do know one thing, May, that you are
another girl here at home from what you are at
school. You don't seem to remember what
you 've told me about the garden-party, and
the wagon, and everything. You to tell me not
to talk to the girls ! "

May began to feel very angry, and luckily very
small too ; the latter feeling prevented the out-
burst of the former. How could she admonish
Cathy ? There was a silence for a few minutes,
while Cathy, with an injured look, made her
preparations for bed. By and by May said,
with an effort :

" She wanted you to come."

" Slic wanted me ; " a little rasping laugh,
and then, " what do you mean by that ? "

May explained by relating the conversation
where Mrs. Bartlett had spoken of her so
pleasantly. The angry lines relaxed a little
in Cathy's face, and presently she said, easily :

" Well, it was never my affair, you know. I
never knew anything about her, except what you
told me, and I 'm sure I hope she will turn out
nice, for your sake."

May struggled with her temper. She felt put
in the wrong on every side. But even if she
yielded to the wild impulse within her, what
could she say ? If Cathy had encouraged her
to talk against her stepmother, she had likewise
encouraged Cathy !

There was nothing to be said then; and
nothing to be done, except to listen to Cathy
with what patience she might ; but Cathy her-
self presently turned from the subject to some-
thing else, and a little later, all unkind thoughts
were lost, for the time, in slumber.

Chapter V.

" Play for you to dance ? Certainly I will.
But, May, how would you like to invite the
other girls who are spending their vacation at
the seminary to join a little party here on
Saturday evening ? "

" But there are not enough to make a party."

Mrs. Bartlett smiled.

"But I said 'join a party.' I thought I
would invite some of my friends in Boston with
their young people, if you would like it, and then
we might have enough for a dancing-party.
Would you like it ? "

May looked up. There was something in
the wistful tone of this " would you like it ? '
that made her ashamed of her ungracious hesi-
tation; yet Cathy's sneering accusation of the
night before, " you are another girl here at
home from what you are at school," had been
rankling in her mind. She must prove herself;
she must show Cathy that she was the same,
and so instead of responding at once as she felt,
with delight at the project, she said after that
hesitation, in a cold tone :

" Yes, I should like it very well." And then
Cathy, who was standing by, sprang forward
and exclaimed :

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, I think it would be just
lovely, and I 'm sure / shall like it above all
things ! "

Again May felt herself put in the wrong and
misunderstood, and again she had to struggle
with her temper. This conversation had taken
place on the morning after Cathy's arrival,
which had been upon Friday, the beginning
of the vacation. The party proposed was for
the next Saturday.

"The only thing that troubles me is that I
have n't a light dress to wear — I 've only my
garnet cashmere here at Hillside," Cathy re-
marked, when she and May were alone to-
gether.

" Oh, but we are so near of a size you can
wear one of mine; I have two white wool
dresses," May answered readily.

When the dresses were produced and tried
on, Cathy found that the latest-made dress suited
her best.

" But, Cathy, don't you think it is too long ?
It comes almost to the floor upon you. I am
taller, you know."

" Oh, no, 't is n't a bit too long. I like it,"
Cathy replied hastily. And so the matter was
dismissed, Cathy after removing the dress
hanging it up in the closet with a pleased air.
The week sped by very quickly, and for the
most part smoothly. Cathy evidently enjoyed

9°-]

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

203

herself, though she found that Mr. Bartlett was
no longer disposed to treat her as a grown-up
young lady; indeed, that he took but scant
notice of her. The long drives, however, in
the little village-wagon in the bright early days
of winter that were like autumn, the trips to Bos-
ton, to a matinee performance of " Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and to visit one or two picture
galleries, filled the short days to overflowing.
On several occasions during this time, Cathy
had said things that had made May exceedingly
uncomfortable. Once, at the beginning of the
preparations for the little party, she suddenly
asked, " Don't you help, when anything of this
kind is going on ? "

"Help — how?" May inquired, in a be-
wildered tone.

" Why, with the notes of invitation for one
thing. I always do that part at home."

" No, I never thought of it. When Aunt
Mary lived with us I was too young, and she
left us only two years ago."

" Well, you do have an easy time, May, I
must say," Cathy had responded to this. May
did not care to ask Cathy for any more of her
opinions on the subject ; a sense of hurt pride
was beginning to affect her — to make her draw
back within herself, and to feel that Cathy was
going too far. Once she would have told Cathy
this, would have told anybody who had spoken
to her in such a fashion ; but now, the con-
sciousness that she herself had opened the way
for Cathy to be so free with her silenced her.

Yet in spite of some annoyances like this, the
week ran rapidly toward its end, and Saturday
morning came. Just after luncheon, Mrs. Bart-
lett said to the girls :

" Had n't you two girls better try on your
dresses now, and see if everything is all right ?
They may need new niching in the neck, or
some little changes. I always try on a dress
after it has n't been worn for a while, before the
last minute, as we used to say at home."

May started up readily ; Cathy was not so
ready.

" But I 've tried the one I 'm to wear, Mrs.
Bartlett," she said.

" Yes, I know — all by yourselves; but don't
you want to let me see if everything is right ? If
it is n't, I can let Julie attend to it at once."

May was already upstairs, and Cathy slowly
followed her.

As Mrs. Bartlett entered the chamber, she
saw her stepdaughter standing arrayed in a very
pretty white gown, much too short in the skirt.

" There now, my dear, here is something to
be done. You have grown so tall, your skirt
must be lengthened." She busied herself for
several moments in taking measurements, and
then turned to Cathy.

" Why, my dear, you both have made a mis-
take. This is as much too long for you as the
one May has on is too short for her ; " and she
went forward, smilingly, ready to help remedy
this " mistake." But Cathy stepped back.

" No, there is no mistake, Mrs. Bartlett. I —
my party-dress at home is as long as this. I
like it."

"But — with your hair down in a braid, it
hardly seems to suit you. The skirt is as long as
mine, I think," Mrs. Bartlett remarked quietly.

" Oh, well, I shall put my hair up to-night.
I often do at home," quickly responded Cathy.
" Besides, the other dress would be short for
me, too. I 'm nearly as tall as May."

As she spoke, Cathy walked across the room
to the mirror, and as she did so the difference
in height allowed May to look easily over her
head. Mrs. Bartlett caught May's eye at that
moment, and laughed ! This was very undig-
nified, no doubt, but Mrs. Bartlett was only an
older girl herself, and the whole situation had
suddenly become irresistibly ludicrous to her.
May, too, in that moment, felt her indignation
at Cathy change to merriment, and, as Cathy
wheeled about with a look of questioning, she
surprised an exchange of glances that both
mortified and offended her.

But, with the easy readiness of her greater
experience, Mrs. Bartlett instantly said :

" It was so funny, my dear, to see May in
that ridiculously short skirt overtopping you
that I had to laugh ; " and then turning briskly
to May, she treated the matter as of no conse-
quence by saying :

" Now, May, if you will come with me to the
sewing-room, Julie will attend to your skirt."

The two girls saw little of each other after
this, until it was time to dress for the evening.
It was an early party, on account of the young

204

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Jan.

people, and May had been occupied with Julie
most of the afternoon.

When, therefore, the two met later in the
day, something of Cathy's irritation had been
overlaid by other things ; but it had only been
overlaid, and May knew, by the rather artificial
manner in which Cathy tried to be cordial and
natural, that she had not forgotten. Specially
was this noticeable when May donned the gown
that Julie had altered.

" Oh, does n't it look nice, though ! " cried
Cathy, in a slightly strained and nervous tone.

" It does very well," was all that May could
reply; for in fact the gown did not look par-
ticularly nice, spite of Julie's efforts. The
lengthening process showed in the white sur-
face, and even the broad sash did not conceal
that the waist also had been a little outgrown.
Julie, who had been sent in by Mrs. Bartlett
to assist the girls at their toilets, turned to
Cathy at last, saying, in her French-English :

" Now, if Mees Cathy 's ready for me, I
make her ready."

Cathy still waited. Then, as if struck by a
sudden thought, she cried :

" Oh, May, will you see if I can have some
of that red kalmia from the green-house instead
of the daisies ? "

May took the hint — Cathy wanted to get
rid of her. It was on the stroke of the hour
for which the guests had been bidden when they
next met.

" What can your friend be about ? " Mrs.
Bartlett asked with some concern as the min-
utes sped by. May knew no more than her
stepmother. She only knew that the bunch
of kalmia had been sent up to Cathy half an
hour ago.

" Perhaps you had better run up and see if
she is waiting for you to come for her," Mrs.
Bartlett then suggested. But just as May
started, the clock struck eight, and at the same
time the door-bell rang. At that very moment
a white vision appeared on the parlor threshold.
It was a slender young lady in a white dress,
with her dark hair piled in a crown-like coil
upon the top of her head. At the neck, a
cluster of scarlet flowers began, and, widening
out in a bright mass of color, drooped in long
sprays to the waist-line. Both May and her

stepmother looked at this vision at first with
surprise. Was it a guest whose arrival they
had not heard ? The white vision stepped
forward; the red mouth above the red flowers
smiled.

"Why, Cathy!" cried May. Yes, it was
Cathy. In her long, white dress, with her
dusky hair gathered up, and all those scarlet
kalmias, she looked like a young lady, and a
very pretty one, it must be confessed. Cathy
was quite aware of the effect that she produced.
She saw surprised admiration in May's glance.
It was not so easy to read Mrs. Bartlett's face,
but in the smile of recognition Miss Cathy saw
no sign of disapproval.

The ring at the door-bell was that of the little
party from the seminary. When they came
into the parlor, Joanna, as the eldest of the
three, advanced first, Elsie and Susy shyly fol-
lowing. All three were dressed somewhat alike,
in different shades of dark-blue cashmere. If,
as they observed the white-robed figures before
them, they might have felt a little shade of
girlish regret and mortification that they too
were not so whitely clothed, the warm recep-
tion that they received from Mrs. Bartlett and
May went far to reassure them. None of the
party at first recognized Cathy. When they
did, Susy forgot her shyness for the moment in
her astonishment, and cried out in that little soft
odd voice of hers :

" Oh, it 's Cathy in a fancy costume — how
funny ! "

The rest of the girls laughed — that is, all
but Cathy ; and Susy, noting the vexed expres-
sion of her face, added :

" I did n't mean by 'funny' that it was n't
nice, too."

The girls laughed again, Cathy joining this
time. As for Mrs. Bartlett, she thought :

"What a dear, quaint little darling it is. If
only she had been May's visitor! "

But as the other guests began to arrive, there
was little opportunity to indulge in regrets of
any kind. The guests were some of them
strangers to May even : they were old friends
and acquaintances of Mrs. Bartlett's, with their
young sisters, or daughters, and their brothers.

" Oh, is n't it nice to have real partners ! "
exclaimed Cathy, as she saw the latter enter.

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

Joanna, to whom she spoke, laughed, and
said she thought she was real enough whenever
she had been Cathy's partner.

" Oh, but you know what I mean — gentle-
men partners," pettishly responded Cathy; and
Joanna had responded to this :

"/call them boys."

Two violins, a harp, and a cornet, in a small
room leading out of the parlors, made music for
the dancers. All the girls entered into the
dancing with great zest, Cathy more than the
rest. When May had first recognized her, in
the long dress and piled-up hair, she had felt
such a thrill of admiration that all her old be-
lief and regard, which had been sorely shaken
within the last few days, revived. In fact,
Cathy looked so much like a splendid grown-
up young lady then, that to criticise her seemed
an impertinence ; and introducing this splendid
young lady to one and another, May had a feel-
ing of pride in her, and when she saw with what
a self-possessed air these introductions were re-
ceived, she was sure that there was not one of
those Boston girls who had nicer manners.

The dancing was in the long wide hall, as
well as in the parlors. Cathy seemed to prefer
the hall, and May found herself in the parlor,
separated from her as the evening went on ;
and now and then she would wonder whether
Cathy was having a good time. May herself was
having a delightful time. She had forgotten all
about her dress being short in the waist, and
showing where it had been let down; she had
forgotten everything that was disagreeable, in-
deed, when she suddenly became conscious that
the music was greatly accelerated in speed, and
that over and above the music there seemed
to be a good deal of noise — the sound of
voices and laughter.

She was vaguely wondering what it meant,
when she heard one of the boy strangers from
town say to another, with a laugh :

" They 're rushing things out there in the
hall, are n't they ? " And the other answered :

"It 's that seminary girl. She 's set them all
a-going. I saw her speak to the musicians
just now."

That seminary girl ! Who, who could they
mean ? Just then the final quadrille change
was called, and the moment she was free May

205

dashed out into the hall. But the music, which
had ceased for a second, had struck up again
into a wild jig tune, and there was Cathy, her
hair flying, her laugh sounding, leading off down
the polished floor, almost on a run, to the jig
tune, with one of the older boys for her partner.

" Margaret, if you don't stop that little hoy-
den, I will ! " May here overheard her father
say. The next instant she saw her stepmother
walk rapidly past, and in another instant the
music came to an abrupt close.

Cathy, in her mad speed, at that instant met
Mrs. Bartlett face to face as she was leaving
the music-room.

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett," she broke forth, " how
could you stop our fun ? "

" Hush, my dear," began Mrs. Bartlett ; but
Cathy, wild with her fun, as she called it, inter-
rupted with a pleading and protesting — plead-
ing for "just one more swing," and protesting
generally in a foolish, flippant little manner, full
of vanity and silliness, with a notion that she
was behaving in a very young ladyish style, and
attracting the admiration of everybody about
her; when she was attracting, instead, that very
unenviable attention which expresses itself in
astonished stares and questions of: " Who is that
little hoyden ? " If she had turned, as she stood
there protesting, she would have seen the mas-
ter of the house approaching with an ominous
frown upon his face ; but she did not turn, and
she only saw the mistress of the house shake her
head at some one, and then heard her say :

" Come, Cathy, it is nearly supper time, and
I want you to go upstairs and let Julie put
your hair and dress in order." As Mrs. Bart-
lett said this, she fixed her eyes upon Cathy
with a perfectly kind, but a compelling gaze, and
the girl knew that she must obey ; but there
was in her heart a blind, unreasoning fury as
she did so.

May, full of shame and disappointment,
shrank back into the shadow of the portiere
near her father, but unseen by him. It was
then she heard her stepmother say :

" No, Edward, I could n't let you speak to
her. You must remember she is only a child
— a willful, spoiled child, and her head is a
little turned by her high spirits, and her pret-
tiness, and the effect she seemed to produce."

206

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

" Margaret, you would find excuses for any-
body."

" I would certainly find excuses for such a
mere child as this."

They moved away together, but May still re-
mained behind the portiere, thinking, thinking,
thinking. This was the third time her step-
mother had shielded Cathy — Cathy, who from
the start had been against her, had said hard
things, had had hard thoughts of her, had done
her best to injure her. But who had encouraged
Cathy ? Again this question confronted May.

" May, is it you, my dear ? "

Somebody was pushing the portiere aside.
It was her stepmother.

" Oh, it is you. Will you run up, my dear,
and see if Cathy is ready to come down. I
can't think what keeps her so long. It could n't
have taken Julie more than five minutes to put
her dress in order."

As May sped on her errand her thoughts sped
with her, tormenting her with fears and regrets.
At the door of her room she paused a moment,
with the fears increasing, for there was a confu-
sion of voices, Cathy's rising above the others.

"No; I shall not go down again ! — to be
sent away like a baby ! — do you think — ! "

" Oh, Cathy ! Cathy ! you must come down ;
I 've been sent for you," cried May, as she
entered the room.

" I shall not/"

" How silly you are, Cathy. Of course you '11
go down."

It was Joanna who spoke. As May crossed
the threshold she saw that Joanna and Susy
were both standing by the dressing-table.

" There 's no ' of course ' about it," Cathy re-
torted sharply, " and you may call me silly if
you like, Joanna Macy, but I should just like
to ask you how you would feel to be treated
like a baby — sent off to have your hair brushed
and your face washed, right in the middle of a
dance ? "

" Hair brushed and face washed ! How you
do go on, Cathy ! But it was n't in the middle
of a dance. The cotillon had ended, and it
was you who started that other thing — I saw
you, and I should have thought Mrs. Bartlett

would have been disgusted. It was horrid of
you — a school-girl like you, to be so forward.
I was so ashamed I did n't know what to do."

"A school-girl like'me ! I 'm fifteen, Joanna
Macy."

" What 's fifteen ? We are all nothing but a
pack of school-girls, any way."

" And to be stopped like that, and sent off,
and your partner — a young gentleman, stand-
ing with you ! "

"Oh, that 's it ! A young gentleman! That
Everett boy ! " and Joanna laughed scornfully.

Cathy's rage did n't cool at Joanna's speech,
and she was about to retort again, when May
broke in with her entreaty :

" Oh, do come, Cathy ! I have been sent
for you."

" Yes, she sent you, I suppose," with a sneer-
ing emphasis upon the pronoun.

" Cathy, you are very — very unjust. If you
did but know it, she has been very kind to you,"
cried May.

" She ! She ! She ! " Cathy mockingly re-
peated. " That is what May calls this step-
mother of whom all at once she is so fond ! " and
then, in a few sharp, stinging words, Cathy let
loose the irritation that had been accumulating
from her hurt vanity for the last few days. In
these words were reproach and accusation, which
had enough truth in them to make it very diffi-
cult for May to control herself; but with the
reproach and accusation against herself were
mixed at last such comment and criticism of
her stepmother as not only May, but the two
other girls, felt to be both unfair and imper-
tinent.

" How can you, Cathy ? " burst out Joanna
indignantly. " Mrs. Bartlett has been lovely
to you — to us all, I 'm sure. If you had to
sputter out that silly prejudice against step-
mothers at first, you might stop now. I should
think you 'd harmed May about enough."

"/harmed May ! May hated her stepmother
from the first. It was May who told me — "
Her voice suddenly ceased as she caught the
expression of horror in May's eyes, — May, who
was looking beyond her at somebody, or some-
thing, — who — what could it be ?

To lie continued. )

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

(A Legend of New Mexico in the Fifteenth Century.)

By Charles F. Lummis.

EAR ye, people of Acoma,
for I, the Governor, speak.
To-morrow, go ye down to
the fields to plow ; already
it is the month of rain, and
there is little in the store-
rooms. Let all go forth,
that we build shelters of cedar and stay in the
fields. The women, also, to cook for us. Take
ye each one his burros, and food for a month.
And pray that the Sun- Father, Pa-yat-yama, give
us much corn this year."

As white-headed Kai-a-tan-ish passed delib-
erately down the front of the houses, the soft
Queres words rolling sonorously from his deep
throat, the people stopped their work to listen
to him. The ruddy sun was just resting over
the cliffs of the Black Mesa, which walled the
pretty valley on the west, and the shadows of
the houses were creeping far out along the
rocky floor of the town.

Such quaint houses as they were ! Built of
gray adobe, terraced so that the three successive
stories receded like a gigantic flight of steps,
they stood in three parallel rows, each a con-
tinuous block a thousand feet long, divided by
interior walls into wee but comfortable tene-
ments. There were no doors nor windows in
the lower story, but tall ladders reached to its
roof, which formed a sort of broad piazza before
the second-story door. 'Women were washing
their hair with the soapy root of the palmilla on
the yard-like roofs, or coming home from the
great stone reservoir with gaily decorated tina-
jas* of rain-water perched confidently upon their
heads. Children ran races along the smooth
rock which served for a street, or cared for their
mothers' babies, slung upon their patient young
backs. The men were very busy, tying up
bundles in buckskin, putting new handles on
their stone axes and hoes, or fittiner to damaged

arrows new heads shaped from pieces of quartz
or volcanic glass.

As the governor kept his measured way down
the street, repeating his proclamation at inter-
vals, a tall, powerfully-made Indian stepped from
one of the houses, descended the ladder to the
ground, and walked out toward the sunset until
he could go no farther. He stood on the edge
of a dizzy cliff. From its beetling top the old
cedars in the plain below looked like dark-green
moss. For in those days the Queres city of
Acoma stood on the Rock of Katzimo — a great
round, stone table two miles in circumference,
and with perpendicular walls a thousand feet
high. The level valley, five miles wide, was
hemmed in by cliffs, forming a gigantic box ;
and in its very center rose the red Rock of
Katzimo.

Sho-ka-ka stood looking out at the fiery sun-
set with a sad and absorbed expression. He
did not hear the patter of bare feet on the rock
behind him, nor did he turn till a small hand
nestled in his own and a boy's clear voice said :

" Ah, Tata ! To-morrow we go to the plant-
ing ! The governor has said it. And perhaps
I may kill rabbits with the new bow thou didst
make me. When I am bigger, I will use it to
kill the wicked Apaches."

The man laid his muscular hand upon the
boy's head and drew it to his side. " Still for
war and the chase ! " he said, fondly. " But it
is better to kill rabbits and deer than men.
Think thou of that, A-chi-te. We Queres fight
only to save our homes, not for the sake of
fighting and plunder, as do the Apaches. But
thy mother is very sick and can not go to the
fields, and it is not kind to leave her alone.
Only that I am a councilor of the city and must
give a good example in working, I would stay
with her. A hundred children will go to the
fields, but thou shalt be a man to keep the town.

* Large earthen jars.

208

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

[Jan.

Two other women lie sick near the estufa, and
thou shalt care for thy mother and for them."

The boy's lip quivered an instant with dis-
appointment; but Pueblo children never even
think disobedience, and he shut his teeth firmly.

" Poor Nana ! " (little mother) he said, " poor
little Mamma ! Truly she can not be left alone.
And, if the Apaches come, I will roll down
such stones on them that they shall think the
Hero Brothers have come down from the Sun-
Father's house to fight for Acoma ! "

" That is my brave. Now run thou home
and grind the dried meat and put it in my
pouch, that I may be ready to start early. AH
else is done. If thou dost well while I am
gone, I will make thee the best bow and quiver
of arrows in all Acoma."

A-chi-te started homeward, running like a
deer. He was fifteen years old, tall for his age,
clean-limbed and deep-chested. His heavy
black hair was cut straight above his big, black
eyes, and behind fell below his shoulders. He
had the massive but clear-cut features of his
father — a face of remarkable strength and
beauty, despite the swarthy skin.

Sho-ka-ka sighed as the boy ran oft". " It is
in an ill time that we start for the planting. I
saw an owl in the cedars to-day, and it would
not fly when I shouted. And when I smoked
the holy smoke, I could not blow it upward at
all. Perhaps the spirits are angry with us. It
is good that we make a sacrifice to-night, to put
their anger to sleep." And he strode thought-
fully away to the great, round estufa, where the
councilors were to smoke and deliberate upon
the morrow's work.

When the Sun-Father peeped over the eastern
mesas in the morning, he looked in the eyes of
his expectant children. Motionless and statu-
esque they stood upon the house-tops, awaiting
his coming ; and now they bowed reverently as
his round, red house rose above the horizon. A
solemn sacrifice had been offered the nightbefore,
and all the medicine-men deemed the omens
favorable, save old Poo-ya-tye, who shook
his head but could not tell what he feared.

Already an active young brave had rounded-
up the hundreds of burros at the foot of the
rock ; and now a long procession of men,
women, and children, bearing heavy burdens

for the packs, was starting toward the southern
brink of the cliff. A deep, savage cleft, gnawed
out by the rains of centuries, afforded a dan-
gerous path for five hundred feet downward ;
and then began the great Ladder Rock. A
vast stone column, once part of the mesa, but
cut off by the erosion of unnumbered ages, had
toppled over so that its top leaned against the
cliff, its base being two hundred feet out in a
young mountain of soft, white sand. Up this
almost precipitous rock a series of shallow steps
had been cut. To others, this dizzy ladder
would have seemed insurmountable ; but these
sure-footed Children of the Sun thought nothing
of it. It gave the only possible access to the
mesa's top, and a well-aimed stone would roll
a climbing enemy in gory fragments to the bot-
tom. They could afford a little trouble, for the
sake of having the most impregnable city in the
world — these quiet folk who hated war, but
lived among the most desperate savage war-
riors the world has ever known — Apaches,
Comanches, Navajos, and Utes.

The seeds, the provisions, the stone hand-
mills, the stone axes and hoes, the rude plows
— each made of a young pine, with one short,
strong branch left near the butt for a share —
were packed upon the patient burros. Upon
other burros mounted the men, riding double,
and the women, each with children clinging
before and behind her. As Sho-ka-ka rode
away, he turned to look up once more at the
Rock, and at the tiny figure outlined against the
sky. It seemed no more than a wee black ant,
but he knew it was his son, A-chi-te, and waved
his hand as he yelled back, "Sha-wa-tsosh!"
from lungs as mighty as those of Montezuma.

In half an hour the long procession had
melted into the brown bosom of the valley ;
and even A-chi-te's keen eyes could distinguish
it no longer. He drew a deep breath, threw
back his square young shoulders, and walked
away to his mother's house. Alone with three
sick women, the only man in Acoma — no won-
der the boy's head was carried even straighter
than usual. Truly, this was better than going
to the planting. All the boys had gone there,
but he was trusted to guard alone the proudest
city of the Queres !

He ran up the tall ladder and entered the

1890.]

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

209

house. At one side of the dark little room lay
his mother on a low bed of skins. The boy
put his warm cheek against the wasted face,
and a thin hand crept up and stroked his heavy
hair. " Little one of my heart," she whispered,
" are they all gone ? "

" All gone, Nana, and I am left to guard thee
and the town. Now, await me while I make
thee a drink oiatole."*

A-chi-te went over to the big lava metate,] at
the other side of the room, drew from a buck-
skin bag a handful of blue corn that had been
parched in the big beehive of an oven, and, lay-

ried a supply of gnarled cedar sticks into each
house to feed the queer little mud fire-places, —
for, at that altitude of over seven thousand feet,
it was cold even in summer, — A-chi-te turned
his attention to the duty which naturally seemed
to his boyish ambition the most important — to
guard the town. He slung over his shoulder
his bow and arrows, in a case made from the
skin of mo-keit-cha, the mountain-lion. Then
he went scouring over the pueblo, gathering up
all the stones he could find, from the size of his
fist to that of his head, and carried them down
to the foot of the great cleft where the Ladder

THE ROCK OF KATZIMO — THE ENCHANTED MESA.

ing the hard kernels on the sloping block, began
to scrub them to powder with a small slab of
lava, flat on one side and rounded on the other
to fit the hand. When the corn was reduced to a
fine, bluish meal, he brushed it carefully into a
little earthen bowl, and with a gourd-cup dipped
some burro's milk from a cajete.\ This he poured
slowly upon the meal, stirring with a stick, till
the bowl was full of a thin, sweet porridge.

" Drink, Nana," he said, holding the bowl to
her lips, and supporting her head on his left
arm. "Then I will carry atole to Stchu-muts
and Kush-eit-ye."

When he had fed his three charges and car-

* A gruel made by boiling Indian corn in water
inclined plane, used for grinding

Vol. XVII.— 24.

Rock began. Here he stowed them in a little
recess in the rock ; and as they were not so
many as he thought desirable, he added to
them several score adobe bricks from ruined
houses. When this was done, he viewed his
battery with great satisfaction. " Now let the
Apaches come ! Truly, they will find it bitter
climbing ! " And, indeed, it was so. So long
as his rude ammunition should hold out. the
boy alone could hold at bay a thousand foes.
No arrow could reach to his loftv perch, nor
could the strongest climber withstand even his
lightest missile on that dizzy " ladder."

A-chi-te now brought down some skins, and

or milk. t A curved stone in the shape of an

corn. % A flat bowl of clay.

2IO

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

[Jan.

made a little bed beside his pile of stones.
There was no danger that the Apaches would
come in the daytime, and he would sleep with
his weapons by his side, so that they should not
surprise him by night. During the day he could
devote himself to the sick.

Two days went by uneventfully, and A-chi-te
was disappointed. Why did not the Apaches
come, that he might show his father how well
he could guard Acoma ? The third day dawned
cloudy, and a ragged, sullen drift hid the Peak
of Snow, away to the north. In the afternoon
the rain began to sweep down violently, a sav-
age wind dashing it against the adobes as
if to hurl them from their solid foundations.
Little rivers ran down the streets and poured
from the edges of the cliff in hissing cataracts.
A perfect torrent was running down the cleft,
and spreading out over the great Ladder Rock
in a film of foam. Luckily, A-chi-te's missiles
and bed were out of its reach.

" Surely thou wilt not sleep in the Ladder
to-night," said his mother, as she listened to
the roar of the storm.

" Yes, Nana, it must be. On such a night
the Apaches are likeliest to come. I am not
salt, that the rain should melt me ; and my bed
is above the running water. What would Tata
say, if he came home and found I had let the
Apaches in, for fear of getting myself wet ? "

When he had fed the sick, A-chi-te took his
bow and quiver and started for his post. It was
already growing dark, and the storm showed no
sign of abatement. It was a fearful climb down
to his little crow's-nest of a fort. The narrow
slippery path was at an average angle of over fifty
degrees, and was now choked with a seething
torrent. He had at one time to climb along
precarious ledges above the water, and at an-
other to trust himself waist-deep in that ava-
lanche of foam — keeping from being swept
down to instant death only by pressing des-
perately against the rocky walls of the gorge,
here not more than three feet apart. But at
last, trembling with exhaustion, he drew himself
up to his little niche and sank upon his drenched
bed, while the white torrent bellowed and raved
under his feet, as if maddened at the loss of its
expected prey.

Deeper and deeper grew the darkness, fiercer

and fiercer the storm. Such a rain had never
been seen before in all the country of the Hano
Oshatch. It came down in great sheets that
veered and slanted with the desperate wind,
dug up stout cedars by the roots, and pried
great rocks from their lofty perches to send
them thundering down the valley. To the
shivering boy, drenched and alone in his angle
of the giant cliff, it was a fearful night ; and
older heroes than he might have been pardoned
for uneasiness. But he never thought of leav-
ing his post ; and, hugging the rocky wall to
escape as far as he could the pitiless pelting
of the cold rain, he watched the long hours
through.

" A-chi-te ! A-chi-te ! "

Surely that could not be his mother's voice !
The gray of dawn was beginning to assert itself
on the dense blackness of the sky. The rain
and the wind were more savage than ever. She
could not be heard from the house he thought
— and yet

" A-chi-te ! A-chi-te ! "

It 70t7s her voice ; and in surprise and con-
sternation A-chi-te started up the cleft. It was
still dark in that narrow, lofty-walled chasm ; the
torrent was deeper and wilder than before. It
was easier to go up than down in such a place ;
but it was all his lithe young limbs and strong
muscles could do to bring him to the top.
There stood his mother, her soft, black hair
blown far out on the fierce wind, her great eyes
shining unnaturally in their shrunken settings.

" SasAe viut-yet-sa ! The house is fallen ! It
has broken my arm, and Kush-eit-ye is buried
to her head under a wall. The white shadows
have come for us ! Thou must run to thy
father, and bring him home before we die!
Run. my brave, soul of my heart ! "

The boy looked at her, and then down the
roaring chasm. It was far worse than when
he had descended before. And the Ladder
Rock — could he do it? He put his arm
across his mother's shoulder and drew her head
against his cheek, patting her back gently, — the
quaint embrace of his people.

" Get thee into a house, Nana. I go for Tata.
Sha-tva-tsosh/" And in another moment he
had disappeared between the black jaws of the
abvss.

'■1

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

21 I

The horror of a life-
time was in that few
hundred feet. Blinded
by the rain, deafened by
the hoarse thunder of
the stream, he let him-
self down foot by foot
with desperate strength.
Once the flood swept
his feet from under him
and left him hanging
by the clutch of his
hands upon the walls.
It took two full min-
utes to bring his feet
back to the rock be-
neath. But at last he
came to where the cleft
widened and the frantic
stream spouted out and
went rolling down the
precipitous slope of the
Ladder Rock. Here
he stood a moment to
catch his breath, and
then turning, began to
back down the slippery
rock, his hands dug
fiercely into one foot-
notch, while his toes
groped in the hissing
water for the notch be-
low. His teeth were
set, his bronze face was
a ghastly gray, his eyes
were like coals. The
wet strands of his hair
whipped his face like
scourges, his finger-ends
were bleeding as he
pressed them against the

sandstone. But slowly, automatically as a ma- ward, over his shoulder, he cried out aghast,
chine, he crept down, down, fighting the fierce The cataract had had its way with the great

IN THE STONE CLEFT.

water, clinging to the tiny toe-holes. Once he
stopped. He was sure that he felt the rock
tremble, and then despised himself for the
thought. The great Ladder Rock tremble ?
Why, it was as solid as the mighty mesa !

It was half an hour before he reached the
bottom of the rock ; and when he looked down-

hill of fine sand on which the base of the rock
rested ; and where the path had been was
now a great gully fifty feet deep. To drop
was certain death. He thought for a moment.
Ah ! the f //in// .'* And he crawled to the side of
the rock, which was here only a gentle slope.
Sure enough there was the pinon tree still stand-

* Pine-tree (literally, the pine-nut seed or kernel).

212

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

ing, but on the very edge of the chasm. It was
fifteen feet out and ten feet below him — an
ugly jump. But he drew a long breath and
leaped out. Crashing down through the brittle
branches, bruised and torn and bleeding, he
righted himself at last and dropped to the
ground. A moment's breathing spell and he
was dashing down the long sand-hill, and then
away up the valley. The fields were eight miles
away. Would his strength last, sorely tried as
it had been ? He did not know ; but he pressed
his hand against his bleeding side and ran on.

Suddenly he felt the ground quiver beneath
his feet. A strange, rushing sound filled his ears ;
and, whirling about, he saw the great Ladder
Rock rear, throw its head out from the cliff,
reel there an instant in mid-air, and then go
toppling out into the plain like some wounded
Titan. As those thousands of tons of rock smote
upon the solid earth with a hideous roar, a great
cloud went up, and the valley seemed to rock to
and fro. From the face of the cliffs three miles
away, great rocks came leaping and thundering
down ; and the tall pinons swayed and bowed
as before a hurricane. A-chi-te was thrown
headlong by the shock, and lay stunned. The
Ladder Rock had fallen — the unprecedented
flood had undermined its sandy bed !

And the town, — his mother — ! The boy
sprang to his feet and began running again,
stiffly, and with an awful pallor on his set face.

When the men of Acoma came gallop-
ing home on foaming burros, it was in deathly
silence. And even when they stood beside
that vast fallen pillar of stone, looking up at
the accursed cliff, not one could speak a word.
There was Acoma, the city in the sky, the home
of their forefathers ;
but their feet would
never press its rocky
streets again. Five
hundred feet above
their heads opened
the narrow cleft ;
and five hundred
feet higher, against
the sullen gray sky,

flitted two wan figures whose frantic shrieks
scarce reached the awe-struck crowd below.
No ladder could ever be built to scale that
dizzy height. The cliff everywhere was perpen-
dicular. And so, forever exiled from the homes
that were before their eyes, robbed of their all,
heart- wrung by the sight of the doomed women
on the cliff, the simple-hearted Children of the
Sun circled long about the fatal Rock of Kat-
zimo. Council after council was held, sacrifice
after sacrifice was offered ; but the merciless
cliff still frowned unpitying. It became plain
that they must build a new town to be safe from
the savage tribes which surrounded them on
every side ; and on a noble mesa, three miles
to the south, they founded a new Acoma, where
it stands to-day, five hundred feet above the
plain, and safe from a similar catastrophe.

For weeks the two women haunted the brink
of their aerial prison, and daily Sho-ka-ka and
A-chi-te went to its foot with sympathizing
neighbors to weep, and to scream out words
of hopeless encouragement. Then Stchu-muts
came no more, and Nai-chat-tye was alone.
Back and forth she paced, like some caged
beast chafing at the bars ; and then, throwing
up her wasted arms, sprang out to her death.

Full four hundred years have passed since
then, and the land of the Pueblos is filling with
a race of white-skinned strangers. Scientific
expeditions have exhausted the ingenuity of
civilization to scale the Rock of Katzimo and
recover its archaeological treasures, but all in
vain. The natives shun it, believing it accursed.
And to-day, as I sit on the rocky battlements of
the Acoma that now is, watching the sunset glory

creeping higher up
that wondrous island
of ruddy rock to the
north, an old Indian
at my side tells the
oft-repeated story of
the Enchanted Mesa.
He is the many-
times - great - grand-
son of A-chi-te.

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

By Charles G. D. Roberts.

The story which I am about to relate was
told me beside the camp-fire, on the banks of
the Big Squatook, in south-eastern Quebec.

The wild regions about the Squatook lakes
are rich in fish and game. With their virgin
forests, wild streams, exquisite and varied land-
scapes, this country is a Paradise for sportsmen
and canoemen. A party of four, devotees
of gun and rod and paddle, we went one July
to this land of the Big Squatook ; and round
the camp-fire one chilly evening, when a sudden
north wind had put an abrupt end to our fish-
ing, Stranion, being in a certain sense the leader
of our party, was called upon for a story of
adventure. We all were experienced woods-
men, with a large stock of stories at our com-
mand ; but Stranion's experience was the widest,
and to him had fallen the strangest and most
thrilling adventures. When Stranion was not
with us, a good yarn might be elicited from
the lips of W. B., or Sam, or even myself; but
in Stranion's presence we paled our " uneffectual
fires." It was on this account, perhaps, that we
were given to interrupting Stranion with occa-
sional gibes and questionings, lest he should grow
too overwhelmingly conscious of the superiority
of his gift.

When we had heaped our camp-fire to thrice
its accustomed height, and had huddled our-
selves comfortably in our blankets under the lee
of the tent, we turned our attention to Stranion,
and Stranion began :

" Boys, the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping
and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in
mind of one of my best adventures, which befell

me that winter when I was trapping on the Little
Sou'west Miramichi."

" Oh, come ! Tell us a good summer story,
old man," interrupted W. B. " I 'm half frozen
as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place
down in the tropics where they have to cool
their porridge with boiling water."

" Nay," replied Stranion, " my thoughts are
wintry, and even so must my story be."

He traced in the air a few meditative circles
with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it
rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed :

" That was a hard winter of mine on the Little
Sou'west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did
me good ; but, looking back upon it now, I
wonder what induced me to undertake it. I
got the experience, and I indulged my hobby
to the full ; but by spring I felt like a barbarian.
It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an
amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very
close to nature ; but it is much more sport in
summer than in winter, and it 's better when one
has good company than when he 's no one to
talk to but a preternaturally gloomy Melicite.

"I had Noel with me that winter — a good
hunter and true, but about as companionable as
a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great
circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the
other on the north. The range to the north was
in my own charge, and a very big charge it
was. When I had any sort of luck, it used
to take me a day and a half to make the round,
for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out
over a range of about twenty miles. But when
the traps were not well filled, I used to do it

2 14

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

[Jan.

without sleeping away from camp. It 's not
much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day
on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an
axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and
sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to
sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the
snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole,
bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end,
and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I
relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears
or Indian Devils* that might be feeling inquisi-
tive as to whether I would be good eating.

" The snow must have been fully six feet deep
that year. One morning, near the last of
February, I had set out on my round, and had
made some three miles from our shanty, when
I caught sight of a covey of partridges in the
distance, and turned out of my way to get a
shot at them. It had occurred to me that per-
chance a brace of them might make savory
morsels for my supper. After a considerable
detail, r, I bagged my birds and recovered my trail
near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as
I had left them, had been solitary enough ; but
now I found they were accompanied by the
foot-prints of a large Indian Devil.

" I did n't really expect to get a shot at the
beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-car-
tridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike
me as strange that the brute should happen to
be going so far in my direction. Step for step his
foot-prints clung to mine. When I reached the
place where I had branched off in search of the
partridges, I found that the panther had branched
off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways
to mine could have but one significance. I was
being tracked !

" The idea, when it first struck me, struck me
with too much force to be agreeable. It was a
very unusual proceeding on the part of an In-
dian Devil, displaying a most imperfect concep-
tion of the fitness of things. That I should hunt
him was proper and customary; but that he
should think of hunting me was presumptuous
and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should
be made to repent it before night.

" The traps were unusually successful that
trip, and at last I had to stop and make a cache
of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mis-

* A name sometimes

lead my wily pursuer, who suddenly came out
of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree
trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks,
not fifty yards away, I w r as disgusted at his sleuth-
hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised
my gun to my shoulder, and in another moment
would have rid myself of his undesired attentions,
but the animal must have caught a gleam from
the shining barrels, for he turned like a flash and
buried himself in the nearest thicket.

" It was evident that he did not wish the mat-
ter forced to an immediate issue. As a conse-
quence, I decided that it ought to be settled at
once. I ran toward the thicket, but at the same
time the panther stole out on the other side and
disappeared in the woods.

" Upon this I concluded that he had become
scared and given up his unhallowed purpose.
For some hours I dismissed him from my mind
and tended my traps without further apprehen-
sion. But about the middle of the afternoon, or
a little later, when I had reached the furthest
point on my circuit, I once more became im-
pressed with a sense that I was being followed.
The impression grew so strong that it weighed
upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test.
Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I sat
down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I sup-
pose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, so that I was about to
give it up and continue my tramp, when — along
came the panther ! My gun was leveled instantly,
but at that same instant the brute had disap-
peared. His eyes were sharper than mine. ' Ah ! '
said I to myself, ' I shall have to keep a big fire
going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call
when I am snoring ! ' "

" Oh ! surely not ! " murmured W. B., pen-
sively. The rest of us laughed, but Stranion only
waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded
silence, and went on :

" About sundown I met with an unlucky acci-
dent, which dampened both my spirits and my
powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place
where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up
its covering of snow, I broke through and was
soaked. After fishing myself out with some dif-
ficulty, I found my gun was full of water which
had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty
given to panthers.

1390.]

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

215

fix ! The weapon was for the present utterly
useless. I feared that most of my cartridges
were in like condition. The prospect for the
night, when the Indian Devil should arrive upon
the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on
miserably for another mile or so, and then pre-
pared to camp.

" First of all, I built such a fire as I thought
would impress upon the Indian Devil a due sense
■of my importance and my mysterious powers.
At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my
cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the
water had not penetrated far enough to render
them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw-
as quickly as possible.

" Then I cut enough fire-wood to blaze all
night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow
at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted
the snow beneath it and brought it down to the
level whereon I was to place my couch. I may
say that the ground I had selected was a gentle
slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that
the melting snows could run off freely. Over
my head I fixed a good, firm ' lean-to ' of spruce
saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I
secured myself in such a way that the Indian
Devil could come at me only from the side on
which the fire was burning. Such approach, I
congratulated myself, would be little to His
Catship's taste.

" By the time my shelter was completed it was
full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy
circle about the camp, and presently I discerned
the panther, gliding in and out among the tree-
trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He
stared at me with his round green eyes, and I
returned the gaze with .cold indifference. I was
busy putting my gun in order. I would not en-
courage him lest he might grow too familiar
before I was ready for his reception.

" Between my gleaming walls of snow I had
worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical.
Away up overhead, among the pine -tops, a few
large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far
away seemed the world of my friends on whom
these same stars were looking down ! I won-
dered how those at home would feel if they
could see me there by my solitary camp-fire,
watched relentlessly by that prow ling and vin-
dictive beast.

" Presently, finding that I made no attack
upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to
within a dozen paces of the fire. There he
crouched down in the snow and glared upon
me. I hurled a flaming brand at him and he
sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But
the brand spluttered in the snow and went out,
whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then
I threw another at him ; but he regarded it this
time with contempt, merely drawing aside to
give it room. When it had gone black out, he
approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in su-
premest contempt. Then he came much nearer,
so that I thought he was about to spring upon
me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the
fire.

" By this time the gun was ready for action,
but not so the cartridges. They were lying
further from the fire and dangerously near my
unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make
a diversion at once.

" Selecting a resinous stick, into which the fire
had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glow-
ing coals, I launched it suddenly with such care-
ful aim that it struck right between the brute's
forelegs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit
at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl,
and shrank farther away. When he crouched
down, biting the snow, I followed up my advan-
tage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of
birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but
bounded off among the trees, where I could hear
him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting
mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while
I went back to see to my precious cartridges.

'• Before long the panther reappeared at the
limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not
quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was
clear that he had set his heart on making a meal
of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design
by a few firebrands.

" I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were
spoiled ; but there were a few loaded with shot,
which the water had not penetrated. From these
I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and
slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one
barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four
extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited
for my opponent to recover his confidence. As
he seemed content to wait awhile, I set about

2l6

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

'THt CRISIS HAD COME. 1 SEIZED MY GL'N* AND KNELT DOWN BEHIND THE FIRE.

broiling my partridges, for I was becoming clam-
orously hungry.

" So also was the panther, as it seemed.
When the odor of those partridges stole seduc-
tively to his nostrils, he once more approached
my fire, and this time with an air of stern deter-
mination quite different from his former easy
insolence.

" The crisis had come. I seized my gun and
knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burn-
ing log in such a manner that I could grasp and
wield it with both hands in an emergency.
Just as the animal drew himself together for a
spring, I fired one barrel. — that containing the
ball, — and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with
pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my
second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him

full in the breast, and he fell in a heap at my
feet.

" As he lay there, struggling and snarling and
tearing up the snow, I slipped in another car-
tridge ; and the next moment a bullet in his brain
put an end to his miseries.

" After this performance. I ate my partridges
with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of
the just and the victorious. The skin of that
audacious Indian Devil lies now in my study,
where Sam is continually desecrating it with
his irreverent shoes."

A few moments after Stranion had finished
his story, the camp on the Big Squatook was
wrapped in slumber, and the loons out in the
bosom of the moonlit lake were laughing to one
another unheeded.

BERTHA'S DEBUT.

By Elia W. Peattie.

j r/TpJ^HE theater was crowded
I U from the topmost gallery
- Jl\ I t0 tne orchestra chairs.
' Out at the entrance was

the legend " Standing-room
only." Warmth and music
and perfume floated out to
the loungers in the vestibule.
People chatted in the dim
light and commented upon
the new mural decorations, or wondered who
the people in the boxes could be. Presently the
orchestra finished the overture. The " gods "
in the gallery grew impatient and began to call
for the curtain to rise. Better-bred people
wondered what could be the matter, and read
the cast, and all the advertisements, and then
read the cast again. There were on the list names
of men and women famous in their profession ;
and, indeed, every name on it except one was
known to the impatient audience. This was a
very short name half-way -down the cast, and it
stood opposite the character Richard, Duke
of York. "Joe Wade," they read, — "Master
Joe Wade," with the thought, " Now, where
did he come from ? " and then they fell to
studying the curtain and the orchestra began
the bars which served as a prelude to the open-
ing of the play.

At this time, behind the scenes everything was
in a state of systematic bustle. Each man or
woman had something to do and was at work.
The only calm figure on the busy scene was
that of Walsh, the stage-manager, — a middle-
aged man with iron-gray hair and mustache.
His face wore a serious look, heightened by the
furrows about the mouth. He sent directions
and commands flying to unseen stage-hands
in the mysterious region below the floor, or in
Vol. XVII.— 25. 2

the dimly lighted space above. " Take that
'.fly' out of the way!" he shouted to one;
" Hoist up the moon about two feet. Bring an
extra ' tormentor ' ' down left ' ! Get out of the
way, Pie ! " — this last to a sharp-featured lad of
sixteen who acted as call-boy. " Is everything
ready for the first act ? " " Yes," came the
answer. " All right ! " said Walsh ; " clear the
stage." And there was a scurrying of feet as all
the stage-hands left the set-scene and huddled
in the wings to watch the opening action, or
went off about their other duties. One man,
watching through a peep-hole in the curtain,
saw the signal from the leader of the orchestra,
and communicated it to the curtain-man by two
sharp strokes on a gong, and sprang off the
stage as the curtain with a steady crackle
rolled itself in ponderous folds into the upper
region. Kings, queens, and lords moved about
through the mimic tragedy. Pie, the call-
boy, hurried to and fro in a state of distrac-
tion. The men would stop to talk and the
women to put the finishing touches to their
"•make-up," and they all seemed to object to
being ordered about by a boy with freckles ; but
it was the business of Pie to have every one in
readiness to step upon the stage at the proper
moment. The great tragedian was in excellent
mood, and he limped and frowned through the
part of Richard the Third (for it was Shaks-
pere's tragedy of that name they were repre-
senting) in a truly blood-curdling manner.
He was as wicked and cruel as any one could
wish, and the people applauded him to the
echo. In the midst of this highly successful
act, Pie happened to go to the dressing-room
which was assigned to the two little princes
who had come there to be smothered. The
Prince of Wales was there, in an elegant velvet

2Ii

BERTHAS DEBUT.

[Jan.

suit and in a state of despair. He was the son
of an actor, and had been on the stage ever
since he could tell taffy from peanuts. Even
earlier, in fact, for he had been carried on in his
long clothes and had then caused every woman
in the theater to exclaim, " How lovely ! " This
small gentleman was in a rage truly princely.

" That little dunce, Joe Wade, has n't turned
up," he said. " Now, what am I to do ? I
can't go on and speak his lines and mine too,
and I suppose the audience won't be satisfied
with only one prince."

Pie rushed to Mr. Walsh. " Duke of York
is n't here, sir," he cried.

" Not here ! " said the stage-manager, in a
tone of dismay. " Let us see, — that is Wade,
is n't it ? "

" Yes, sir."

'• I wonder what can be the matter with him.
He rehearsed this morning letter perfect. Has
n't any word come from his mother ? "

" I '11 see, sir," said Pie as he dashed off to
ascertain. The stage-manager stepped quickly
to the dressing-room of the tragedian, where, in
a brief absence from the stage, the cruel Richard
was earing a sandwich with evident relish.

" The boy who rehearsed the younger prince
has n't showed up yet," said Walsh.

" Oh, come now," said the malignant Gloster.
" That 's too bad. He was a bright lad, ' so
young and yet so subtle. ' "

" Can't we cut the Duke of York scene ? "
suggested the stage-manager.

" No, sir," retorted the other. " Not a line
shall be cut out. Is n't there any one else?"

" I can't think of any one else who can do
the part," said the stage-manager.

" I should think you would have an under-
study all coached ready for an emergency like
this," said the actor with considerable spirit. " To
cut that scene will be to spoil the act, and then
we '11 catch it from the critics in the morning."

" Well, it 's all we can do to run a theater, let
alone a Foundlings' Home," retorted Walsh.

Pie rushed up in his usual state of breathless-
ness. " There 's word come, sir, from Wade."

'" Well, what is it ? "

" It 's his sister, sir. She says he 's broke his
leg."

"Here 's a pretty mess!" Walsh stamped

out to investigate. He found, standing in the
wings, a very chilly little girl, who began talking
fast, as he came up.

" You 're Mr. Walsh, are n't you ? Joey 's
broken his leg. He fell down the back stairs
just as he was starting to come here. He tried
to come even after that, sir, and wanted to make
Mamma think he could limp all the better on
'countofit. But 'twas no use. He )\xst couldn't."
Bertha flung out her hands in her earnestness ;
then clasped them again. "And he cried so
hard. He said the piece would all be spoiled.
That it was just no good at all if the princes
were n't smothered in the tower and — and what
are you going to do, sir ? "

" Do ? " said Mr. Walsh. " I 'm in a fix."
" I suppose not another person knows the
words to say," said Bertha ; the tears dried up
in her eyes and they shone with excitement.
" No," confessed Mr. Walsh, "not a soul."
"You don't think — " the little girl stopped
and trembled, with her cheeks as red as live
coals. "Joey '11 just go crazy if all the people
see his name on the bill, and know it was he
that spoiled the play." She choked down a
sob. " I could n't help it, sir, I really could n't.
I 've got to do something. I shall have to play
the part myself." She looked like a little general
about to storm a fort.

" Why, — have you ever played it ? "
" Lots of times, — at home with Joey."
" But would n't you be frightened at all the
people when you went on the stage ? " The
stage-manager had a gleam of hope in his eye.
" I don't think I should. It would be easier
than going home and telling Joey the play was
spoiled. I would n't look at them. I 'd just
act. He says to me, ' How fares our loving
brother ? ' and I say, ' Well, my dread Lord ; so
must I call you now. ' "

'■ Bless me! — " said Walsh, half to himself.
" She knows the lines."

" Oh, yes, sir. I know all the words 'way
down to ' I shall not sleep in quiet at the
Tower.' Then I mock King Richard when he
walks, so." She drew up her arms, made an
imaginary hump and limped along, scowling.
" Then I make a face at him behind his back
and tell him, ' I 'm afraid of my uncle Clar-
ence' angry ghost.' "

1890.]

BERTHAS DEBUT.

219

" Capital ! " said the stage-manager. " I '11
take the risk. I 'm afraid there 's no time to
lose. Here ! " — he held out his hand. She took
it, and trotted along, stumbling over the shawl
that was falling from her shoulders. He led
her to the dressing-room of one of the ladies,
to which he presently brought the Duke of
York's costume. He explained the emergency,
and the good-natured actress aided Bertha to
put on the little prince's dress. The next half-
hour passed like a dream.

" Mamma and Joey did n't know I was going
to act," she explained to the actress. " I 'm
afraid they '11 think something dreadful has
happened to me when they find I don't come
home, but I knew they 'd think I could n't, if
I told them. Are n't these clothes a fine fit ?
We 're exactly the same size, Joey and me.
You see it was n't only that Joey could n't bear
to break his promise, but then," — frowning a
little and looking very serious, — " we could n't
afford to lose the money, either. We '11 need it
more than ever, now that Joey's leg is broken."
She sighed, and the tears welled up in her eyes.
The lady put her arm around her and drew her
close.

" Try hard not to be frightened," said she.
" Don't think about the crowd in front, at all."

" No," broke in Bertha, " I '11 just think of
Joey."

" And when you stand still," said the actress,
" stand perfectly still. Don't move your hands
or feet unless you have reason to. Be sure and
look straight at the person you are talking to,
and when you speak, hold up your chin a little
so the sound will go out into the house. It will
be easier to speak in a high tone." She showed
her how, gave a few finishing touches to her
hair, — for they found it prettier than the wig, —
and almost before Bertha knew it, she was on
the stage.

In the mean time, His Royal Highness, the
Prince of Wales, had been in a sad way. " I
hate to act with a girl," he said, and kicked about
his histrionic legs. " She 's a greeny, too, and
probably does n't know her lines. She 's sure
to spoil my part. I had counted on making a
great hit, but she does n't know anything about
the proper ' business ' of the part. These
wretched ' amachures ' never do." But the

talented young man was compelled to bow his
head to fate and go on the stage at the proper
cue.

Bertha's head swam a little, and the words
the others were speaking sounded far off. She
glanced at the audience. It seemed to rise
from her feet up, up to the very ceiling. Then it
seemed to swell into one immense face with
myriad eyes all looking at her. For one terrible
moment she was tempted to cover her face with
her hands and rush from the stage. Then she
remembered Joey at home crying with pain and
disappointment, and she was recalled to her

■$

senses by the well-remembered words : " How
fares our loving brother ? " She tried to speak
as if she always had been a prince and was
quite used to talking in such high-sounding
language. She tried to hate the wicked Rich-
ard, as she had heard her mother tell Joey to
do, and to speak as fiercely and saucily as she
could to him. She pulled at his garments and
mimicked his gait, and screwed up her face in
imitation of his, and tried to speak with great
politeness to the royal prince ; and in her heart
all the time whispered " Joey ! Joey ! " The

220

BERTHA S DEBUT.

[Jan.

house became quieter as she went on ; the child
was so intent upon her work. She never faltered
till the last word was spoken, but when she was
safe in the wings again, she began to feel faint
and weak. The speeches on the stage were
lost in a burst of applause that swelled and
swelled until it grew quite deafening.

" What is it ? " she said, very much frightened,
turning to the Prince of Wales.

The stage-manager came up.

AFTER THE PLAV.

" Well, well," he said, smiling for once that
evening, " I believe you '11 have to go back."

" And do it all over again ? " said Bertha
aghast. She feared that she had made some
dreadful mistake.

" No, no; go on and bow to the audience and
come right back again."

" I '11 lead her on," said the Prince of Wales.

" No," said Walsh, "she 'd better go alone."

" Are they pleased, sir ? " asked Bertha as
the applause still continued.

" Well, what a little greenhorn ! " ejaculated
the prince. The actress who had dressed her
gently pushed her on the stage again. " I 'm
just cheating," she thought to herself; " they
think it 's Joey."

" Bow to them, my dear," said the great tra-

gedian in an undertone. A little girl about her
own age leaned far out of the nearest box and
smiled at her, and flung something that fell just
at Bertha's feet. It was a bunch of beautiful
pink roses. Somebody picked them up and
handed them to her. The audience applauded
more loudly than ever. The child looked so
pretty and small and shy. " These flowers are
for Joey," said Bertha's guilty little heart. She
formed a sudden resolution. She walked straight
down to the footlights,
holding the beautiful
roses in her hand. The
people were quiet in-
stantly, wondering what
could be coming now.
She held up her chin,
as the actress had told
her to do, and spoke
high. " Please," she said,
" please, you must n't
think I 'm Joey. He 's
broken his leg and could
not come. I 'm only
Bertha." Then she grew
terrified at the sound of
her voice, speaking alone
in that great place to so
many people, and, bury-
ing her face in the roses,
ran from the stage in a
tumult of alarm and tears.
When Bertha was
dressed in her own clothes again and ready to
go home, Richard the Third came to her, all
dressed in his ermine as he was, and took her
in his arms and kissed her. It was something
to remember all her life, if only Bertha had
known it. Then he hurried back to his duty,
leaving something in her hand that Bertha was
then too excited to examine, but which she held.
" I think my carriage has come," said the
actress who played the part of Lady Anne;
"I 'd better send the child home in it."

" You must play Joey's part till he is well
again," said the stage-manager. Bertha nodded.
They asked her where she lived, told the
driver, and Bertha was put in among the warm
cushions of the carriage, and whirled over the
streets toward her home. She sat quite on the

BERTHA S DEBUT.

!2I

edge of the seat in her trepidation, and held
both hands close shut, one around the roses and
the other around the great man's gift. She was
afraid the driver would make a irfistake in the
house, but he found the right one, and when she
was lifted out she flew up the steps like a bird.
The door was open and Mamma was standing
on the threshold, looking very pale and anxious.

"Oh, Bertha, where have you been?" But
the little daughter's bright face stopped her
with the sentence half spoken.

" Is Joey asleep ? " whispered Bertha; and as
the mother shook her head, the little girl could
contain herself no longer. " Joey 1 Joey ! " she

cried, springing into the room, " I played it. I
said all your words, and they thought I was you.
But I told them I was n't. And a little girl
gave me the flowers, and Richard the Third
gave me" — she opened her hand and looked
at the contents. It was a twenty-dollar gold-
piece. It might have been a penny for all
Bertha cared. " King Richard is real nice off
the stage, is n't he, Joey ? Oh, Mamma ! 1
hope you were n't very frightened."
" Bertha," said Joey, " you 're a brick ! "
'• Oh, I 'm so glad you think so ! " she said.
Two little tears started in her eyes. " Mamma,
I 'm so tired. Won't you put me to bed ? "

IN THE TENEMENT.

{Before Christinas.)

By Malcolm Douglas.

A.DDY 's lost the job he had a-drivin' on the line,
An' so he 's took to carryin' a advertisin'-sign ;
All 'at he 's a-makin' now is fifty cents a day,
Walkin' up an' down, an' givin' little bills away.

Daddy he tells Mammy 'at it won't be long afore
He fin's anudder job at sumpin 'at '11 pay him more ;
An' Bess an' me 's a-hopin' 'at he '11 git it soon, a-cause
It 's putty nearly 'bout the time to look fur Santy Klaws !

I 'm 'mos' eight years old, an' Bess is littler 'an me,
An' Mammy 's been a-promisin' 'at we could have a tree
Big as what the Dolans had las' year on Chrisa-mus,
An' there 's seven little Dolans, an' there 's on'y two of us !

But Mammy now is worried 'bout the rent a-comin' on,

An' we don't drink no more coffee, an' the bag o' flour 's gone;

An' the coal 'at 's in the closet is a-gittin' down so fast

We sif 's the cinders over twict to try an' make it last.

So it don't much look as if a tree 's a-goin' to be had,
An' we 've stopped a-askin' Mammy 'cause it on'y makes her mad,
An' we both have made it up to stop a-plaguin' Daddy too
Fur centses to buy candy with, jus' like we used to do.

But we keep a-hopin' to oursel's it won't be alius so,
An' a-prayin' an' a-prayin', though we don't let Mammy know,
If there 's a job to spare, 'at Daddy '11 git it right away —
Sumpin' 'at '11 bring him more 'an fifty cents a day !

A WELL-FILLED CHIMNEY.

By Mabel Loomis Todd.

A wide window in my little house lets in a
great many beautiful sights through the day, and
all the year it fills the room with pleasantness.

When the air is a whirling confusion of snow-
flakes, and the birches standing in the midst of
the falling snow can hardly be distinguished
from the flying whiteness, as well as when the
same fairy trees, fluttering their dainty leaves in
imperceptible breezes, quiver in the August
sunshine, there are lovely and satisfying pictures
in that favored room, whether snow-birds flit by,
or robins and song-sparrows.

In early May, the outlines of the trees grow
softer against the sky — a grayish mist enfolds
each little branch and twig. The elms and
maples dream of their coming foliage — not far
behind such gentle prophecy. Just at sunset,
all over the lawn the fresh young clovers fold
their little green hands, and bow their heads
above them for the quiet night — and then some-
thing interesting happens.

While the sun is still bright, but the shadows,
growing longer, stretch the gables in silhouette
across the meadow, suddenly the air is filled
with a soft flutter of wings, and a sound of twit-
tering falls from the sky. A grand procession
of swallows vibrates above us, sweeping around
in a great circle, so swiftly that our eyes can not
follow the separate flights. Where they came

from we did not notice ; but a moment before
the blue sky was clear, and now, looking black
in the sunlight, these busy little visitors float,
sharply outlined, against that airy background.

Around and around they sweep, sometimes in
a solid mass of dark, fluttering wings — often
scattered far apart in their invisible, circling
track, but ever around, like forest leaves blown
wildly by November gales. They keep up this
mad whirl for an hour, while the sunlight grows
less and less, and the cool dampness brings out
the sweet odor of fresh grass.

Then Millicent and I sit at the big window,
and watch for what may happen next.

Near us stands an old house with a generous
chimney in the middle, toward which, as a cen-
ter, this swinging circle gradually contracts.
The tremulous flutter above is like the fall of
raindrops ; but, while we look, the wings are
frequently spread and fixed, here and there a
little bird floats smoothly around the chimney-
top, only to flutter onward again in a few
seconds still more swiftly, as the wind or the
notion takes him.

Near the end of their sunset flying, often all
the swallows reverse their direction, suddenly
doubling backward, until, with a quick " order
out of chaos," the circle is re-formed with every
bird turned the other way.

A WELL-FILLED CHIMNEY.

223

Having short, stubby tails, they lack the
grace of the beautiful barn-swallows ; but our
delight in these fascinating neighbors is not
strictly measured by length of tail.

Finally the circle grows almost confusingly
small; and, as we look, six — eight — ten — four-
teen drop quickly into the capacious chimney,
while the rest keep on in their dizzy whirl more
madly than before. One or two pretend to go
in, fluttering coquettishly for an instant at the
opening, only to dash off again into the free air
with triumphant energy. A little steadying of
tiny bodies by quivering wings for the descent,
and nine more plunge in, not precisely head-
first, but still in such tumultuous and quick
succession that Millicent wonders how all can
possibly settle comfortably so soon. Then fol-
low six more ; those outside still flashing through
their circle as if intoxicated with the joy of
motion. Group after group pitches in, until we
imagine that the whole chimney must be solidly
packed with them ; but the numbers above still
fly on, to all appearance undiminished.

Twilight grows deeper ; Millicent's brown
eyes are heavy, and she rests her head
against my shoulder as we watch ; but she
wishes to wait until the last little swallow shall
be comfortably tucked into his sooty bed before
she goes to her white one.

At last the circling procession is really thin-
ning. We can see that fewer remain outside,
while the in-tumbling groups grow more fre-
quent.

Fourteen — eighteen — twenty now dive in at
once. Finally all are safely stowed away but
one, which flies around the house and barns for
several minutes more, as if searching for stray
children needing care.

The sky is almost dark now, but very soon
against the ashes of western brightness this
faithful little guardian flutters above the well-
filled chamber, then, hesitating an instant, peace-
fully drops in, and only the piping of frogs breaks
the silence of the spring evening.

Would it not be entertaining to quietly open
that chimney, as Audubon opened the old syca-
more tree in Kentucky, and see the many little
bodies hanging close together by their claws —
supported as well by their sharp tail-feathers
— upon the black walls ?

In former years these swallows always occu-
pied hollow trees and other natural openings,
hanging, as now, methodically side by side. But
they choose, in these days, almost exclusively,
chimneys for their home, building their nests of
twigs cemented by saliva, and raising two broods
of young each season.

Except when it rains, this performance, which
I have described to you, goes on every night.
In rainy evenings we watch for them in vain.
Perhaps they go to bed very early in the after-
noon — at all events they have no sunset pa-
rade. But night after night, when the sky is
clear, come the twittering, and the fluttering,
and the sweeping circle with its occasional re-
verse — the tumbling into the chimney in
groups; and finally the lone little sentinel
searching the quiet evening air.

And one season we counted them every
night for three weeks — two of us independ-
ently writing down the number in each group
as it went in. One of us has a mathematical
mind, while the other has not ; but, nevertheless,
the two results came out within twenty of each
other every time. And how many do you think
there were ? How many little bedfellows
dropped into that old chimney, while a silver-
haired couple sat alone in the quaint cottage
rooms below, listening to the birds' shrill good-
nights ?

" 'Leven or seventeen," said a little girl who
had not watched them with us, but who was in-
terested in guessing.

" Sixty or eighty," answered an older friend.

There were between eight hundred and
twenty, and eight hundred and forty; and
Audubon tells even more surprising tales of
the number of birds found crowded together.

-a*i

zS}>\'

The shrill wind blew about the house
And through the pines all night :

The snowflak.es whirled across the fields
And hid the fence from sight .

By dawn the drifts had blown so deep
No horse nor sleigh could go :

The dog-house and the chicken -coops
Were buried in the snow .

There was no thought of school that day ;

We worked with shovels all ,
And cleared a path from house to barn ;

The snow was like a wall .

I wished our house was covered up ,
Like that one in the book

My Grandma showed to me one day
Beside the chimney-nook .

The story said the chimney-pot
Just showed above the snow ,

And all day long the lamps were lit
Down in the house below .

p|§livi8 ^it&ttv

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

To-day in the garden I heard a complaining,
And little tears dripping as if it were raining.
And there sat a Lady-bug

under a leaf,
With a Spider's-web handker-
chief, sobbing with grief !
I stopped all astonished and

asked her, " What is it ? "
And she said, " Little Allie 's
gone off on a visit
For six weary weeks, and oh ! how shall I

bear it !
The sunshine 's not bright without Allie to
share it."

I met an old Crow in the midst of the

meadow,
He stood on one
leg like a sulky
black shadow,
And croaked as
he stood there,
so solemn and
sober,
j " Allie is gone till
the first of
October ! "
The Bumble-bee heard it, the foolish old

hummer,
How Allie was
gone for the
rest of the
summer.
Six weeks with-
out Allie ! I
wish they
were over ! "
He boomed
out his grief
in the depths
of the clover.
The Wren wiped his eye with the tip of his
feather,
Vol. XVII.— 26.

I 'd rather have six weeks of hard, rainy

weather ! "
The Rose in the woods told her buds to stop

blowing,
■ For Allie can't see them and what 's the use

growing ! "
There was also a Firefly, young and romantic,
When he heard she was gone, he was very

near frantic ;
A-thinking of

Allie he sat up

all night,
And wept till his

tears nearly

put out his

light.

A Butterfly, too, with

some gold on his

wings,
When he heard that Allie

had gone to the springs,
Was cross as a griffin lor halt of an hour,
And made up a face at a sweet little flower,
A dear little Lily that grew in the valley,
And told it, it was not so pretty as Allie.

Now, there was a green Grasshopper sat in

the stubble,
Sat still there and listened, with long legs bent

double,
And when all the creatures had finished their

grumbling,
She set off a-hopping without ever stumbling ;
She left bugs /

and birds, \ I

bees and , |: ;

bees and v j Ui '
blossoms ImIHM %

■ V-wv i ' '4,

behind her, J ' [ ';//\V •' ' f

And cried, as %mSH'^MA^M^^k L

she van-
ished,

" I '11 hop till I find her ! "

¥ 6 ?^

(Sy

w -I

<4T

WfH^TZ

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

ARER and clearer than monarch and minister,
Rabble that gabble and hypocrite sinister,
Warriors and sages of far-away ages,
Are the Fools that flit through the historical

pages.
They gazed somewhat dazed , a

through their patches F^tt

and powder,
They wondered and blundered and ever <8

laughed louder;
While crown tumbled down, and while
creed flew to pieces,
Their range was the change of their daily

caprices.
While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured,
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard.
They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel,
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis ;
Broke the lance for fair France, and went
masked in gay Venice.

ft.

^1, *

They spent as they went, and were reckless of

rules,
Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the

schools,
Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to

the proudest;
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed

the loudest;

THE FOOLS WALTZ.

227

Winking and wooing, whatever was doing,

Though storms of reforms and rebellions were brewing.

Talking and mocking the age that they grew in,

They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin.

Smiling and sneering, they flit out of hearing.
They bow themselves airily out of our pages ;

No sound underground of their
jesting and jeering,
The dear little Fools of
the far-away ages !

Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy,
Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning ?

Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter,
Too mocking for bliss, and too merry for burning ?

Remember — forget them — it never will fret them,

Who gibed at misfortune whenever she met them ;

At joust and at revel cast care to the devil,

And lived all their lives on whoever
would let them.

Concede them the meed that is due the departed !

Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend, and light lover ;

A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted;

A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over ;

A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools,

Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools !

Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it ;

Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it !

'JUCyAKEST

^->*<65'ar' ~^

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

N Servian hearths the Christmas fire
Did slowly molder and expire.
In Servian hearts there glowed a flame
No time shall quench, no tyrants tame.

Through royal Petersburg the Czar
Rode in his slow, triumphal car ;
The Christmas bells rang loud and sweet
Before the Liberator's feet.

At Bucharest, where snow lay white
Beneath the friendly veil of night,
Was ushered in, with captive state,
The vanquished of the Czar and fate

His brow was stern — on Plevna's plain
The snow fell fast upon the slain,
The Prophet's standards fled to sea ;
Roumania — Servia — they are free!

Roumania's daughter, unaware,
Had caught the glance of stern despair ;
She smiled on him with childish grace,
The vanquished tyrant of her race ;

[This poem recounts an incident at the lime of the Russian victory which liberated Christian Servia and Rou-
mania from Moslem rule. Osman Pasha commanded the Turks in the defense of Plevna during the war between
Russia and Turkey. Though Plevna was taken, he had shown himself so brave and skillful as to win the admi-
ration even of his enemies. While Osman was a prisoner, and on his way through Bucharest, the capital of
Roumania, a little Roumanian girl, touched by his dejected expression, ran forward and placed a flower in the hand
of the defeated general.]

238

POEMS BY HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.

For comfort in this bitter hour
She laid within his hand a flower ;
The captive's eyes with tears were dim,
He kissed the lips that smiled on him.

229

Sweet pledge of peace, and debt confessed
Between oppressor and oppressed !
An echo thrilling Moslem pride :
Good-will to men at Christmas-tide."

The Crescent wanes — the Star ascends —
The reign of force and terror ends ;
And love hath overcome the sword
Upon the Birthday of the Lord.

A KING IN EGYPT.

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

I think I lie by the lingering Nile,
I think I am one that has lain long while,
My lips sealed up in a solemn smile,
In the lazy land of the loitering Nile.

I think I lie in the Pyramid,
And the darkness weighs on the closed eyelid,
And the air is heavy where I am hid,
With the stone on stone of the Pyramid.

I think there are graven godhoods grim.
That look from the walls of my chamber dim.
And the hampered hand and the muffled limb
Lie fixed in the spell of their gazes grim.

I think I lie in a languor vast,
Numb, dumb soul in a body fast,
Waiting long as the world shall last,
Lying cast in a languor vast.

Lying muffled in fold on fold,
With the gum and the gold and the spice enrolled,
And the grain of a year that is old, old, old,
Wound around in the fine-spun fold.

The sunshine of Egypt is on my tomb ;
I feel it warming the still, thick gloom,
Warming and waking an old perfume,
Through the carven honors upon my tomb.

The old sunshine of Egypt is on the stone ;
And the sands lie red that the wind hath sown.
And the lean, lithe lizard at play alone
Slides like a shadow across the stone.

And I lie with the Pyramid over my head,
I am lying dead, lying long, long dead,
With my days all done, and my words all said,
And the deeds of my days written over my head.

HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.

Many of our readers will have noticed, in the
volume of St. Nicholas for the past year, sev-
eral poems signed by a new name, that of Helen
Thayer Hutcheson. In the preceding pages
of this number, we print four more by the same
author. The sixteen poems published up to
this date reveal so remarkable a talent, and
show so unusual a range, that we desire to call
the attention of our readers (and especially, per-
haps, that of our older readers) to work, the fine-
ness of which might not receive its clue appre-
ciation in the haste of ordinary reading.

These poems were written by a young girl,
whose short life was most uneventful, and
whose experiences were bounded by the small
circle of a quiet home. Verses like "A Christ-
mas Letter," " To-day in the Garden," " A
Wee World of My Own," or " Discovered "
are, perhaps, only the light singing of a happy
heart. But it is singing in perfect harmony with
the tune set by the winds and waters, and the
trill of birds. "The Song of the Caged Canary "
shows a more finished art, and is rich with the
warmth of color and sweetness of sound that
fill " the land sun-haunted." " The Days of the
Daisies," again, fairly dances down the page, in
the airiest, gayest, most fantastical measure, so
that one has but to close one's eyes to see myri-
ads of white and gold heads nodding and sway-
ing to the pipe of the wind, and to smell the
warm earth of the June meadows. " The Last
Cricket " is, with its playful pathos, a dainty
little bit of melody, still different in character-
istics. But of the poems in this January number
of St. Nicholas, two — "A King in Egypt,"
and "The Fools' Waltz " — are so unusual and of
so high merit, that they are, doubtless, the young
poet's latest and most considered work. Full
of simplicity, truth, and imagination, showing an
increasing mastery of form and a growing sense
of the beauty and capacity of English song, these
poems justify our belief that had Helen Hutch-
eson lived she would have taken acknowledged
rank with the leading poets of the time.

Yet so unconscious of exceptional powers was

she that it seems never to have occurred to her
to print her poems ; and it was only after she
had passed beyond the sound of the world's
praise, that the world knew what high praise she
had deserved. After her death the loving friends
who had kept all her manuscripts since her
earliest childhood were persuaded to allow these
poems to be printed ; and to meet a natural de-
sire that something might be known of the life
of the young poet, one who dearly cherishes her
memory has kindly furnished the following brief
but sympathetic sketch. — Editor St. Nicholas.

Near a pretty village of the West, on a gentle
slope overlooking a river where sparkling waters
shimmer through the foliage of over-arching
trees, stands a many-gabled cottage — the
birthplace and early home of Helen Thayer.

Lovely scenery, groves full of wild birds,
gardens, domestic pets, story-books, and loving
parents formed a happy little world in which
her young spirit, like a tender bud, began a
growth that afterward blossomed into rare
sweetness and beauty.

In her early childhood, with her fairy-like
form, golden-brown curls, and delicate face
brimming with life and intelligence, she seemed
some ethereal being from a brighter realm.

Before the pleasant paths of learning opened
to her, she amused herself as an only child
may who is left much to its own resources.
She added to her play-houses whole menager-
ies of animals which she cut out of card-paper ;
dressed up her kittens like little old ladies ;
taught pet grasshoppers to walk a tight rope
stretched above the window sill ; and rocked
her dolls to lullabies of her own composing.
She was, in truth, a little improvisatrice, and
often walked the floor chanting original stories
in verse, unheard and unnoticed, as she
supposed.

A few years later, her surroundings had
changed, and she was far away from the cot-
tage where she was born. In her new home
in the environs of Washington, her young soul

232

HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.

continually grew in the love of the good, the
true, and the beautiful. She was always the
brave champion of the weak and oppressed ;
ready to bestow her dearest possession on any
child less fortunate than herself, and tenderly
humane toward every helpless, suffering thing,
bird, beast, or insect. With an artist's hand
and a poet's soul, amid ordinary childish em-
ployments, every day brought forth some new

HELEN THAVEK HUTCHESON.

device or fancy, in picture or verse. Logical
withal, and possessing a rare gift of language,
she often amused and interested her elders
with her apt reasonings on the more serious
questions of life.

Her parents, finding the excitement of school
life injurious, decided that most of her educa-
tion must be carried on under the home roof —
especially as the national capital with its vast
library and other public institutions furnished
unusual facilities for self-culture.

Living very much in the seclusion of her
suburban home, close to the wild-wood, ram-
bling or driving over hill and dale, peering into
hidden nooks, and learning the sweet secrets

of nature, it is not strange that she found that
" Wee World " of her own, or discovered the
" pale-tinted blossoms that nobody knew, saving
the wind and the sun and the dew."

Many poems written between the ages of ten
and fifteen show that life passed happily, rich
in bright fancies, and pleasantly divided between
study and recreation.

Helen Thayer composed verses almost from
her babyhood, " making them up," indeed, before
her small hands had learned how to write down
the pleasant fancies that came into the little
curly head. Even these childish verses showed
how full of sunshine was her life and how much
she lived in a land of her own fancies. But by
the time she was twelve, her poetry began to
indicate that it was the work of a true poet.
For a poet is a maker of beautiful realities in
the world of imagination, which prosaic people
would never be able to see for themselves, but
which they are glad of, and much the richer for,
when the poet has presented them.

Soon came high and pure friendships to en-
large and brighten her young world ; especially
the love of one whom she delighted to call
" sister," and whose charming little family was
the source of many an inspiration. To see her
the center of that lovely group with her slight
figure, fair young face, and shining hair — her
fingers deftly weaving " daisy chains " or trac-
ing humorous sketches — her young auditors
entranced with the words that fell from her
lips — was to see a picture not easily forgotten.

A young friend, pure and sweet like herself,
speaks of her as " one who lived among the
flowers of the wild-wood, one with them, in-
terpreting their beauty and sweetness into pic-
tures and language — traces," she adds, " of the
sojourning among us of a fair spirit passed for-
ever beyond the perishable."

She died at the early age of twenty-six. And
her sweet life brightened to its close, for the halo
of a love rare and tender, doing homage to her
womanhood, tinged all her sky with rose color,
which never darkened, but merged into the
light of Heaven, whose glory she entered on the
morning of April 29, 18S6.

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

By Edmund Alton.

Seventh Paper * Union may deal directly, through their execu-
tives or other officers, with one another; but

foreign intercourse. they have no standing, as independent sover-
eignties, before the nations of the earth. In

The sovereign relations between empires of matters international, their political influence is

the past led to the early recognition of certain unknown ; the authority of the Republic has

general rules of right which have come down to then full sway.t An American abroad flour-

the nations of to-day with the supreme force ishes his passport as " a citizen of the United

and dignity of established public law. The States."

authority of every government is absolute Following time-honored and universal fashion,

within its own dominions, and as far as a can- we have, located in various parts of the world,

non-shot from shore. The ocean is free to all. numerous agents who, under the direction of the

Our rights at home and on the high seas rest Secretary of State, keep watch on foreign matters

not upon mere international courtesy and con- of interest to our people — nearly all of the foreign

sent, but upon principles of natural reason, powers thus recognized reciprocating by send-

sanctioned by centuries of observance. The ing to the United States (as, also, to other coun-

privileges enjoyed by the United States beyond tries with whom they have commercial and

the seas, and accorded to its citizens sojourning political intercourse) similar representatives for

in foreign lands, — like those extended by us, in like purposes. These agents are divided into

turn, to other powers, — are such as belong to two branches, — the diplomatic service and the

every people under the same unwritten " Law of consular service, — each with distinct functions.

Nations," or as are expressly secured by written The diplomatic agents reside at the capitals of

covenants between our Government and the nations and constitute " embassies," or " lega-

governments concerned. tions " ; the various embassies, or legations, of

To the Federal Power, as remarked in the different states collected at any capital constitut-

first chapter of this series, has been confided the ing the "Diplomatic Corps" at that "place,

exclusive care and conduct of these foreign in- They are missionaries from state to state. They

terests. In their domestic relations, and within represent their respective countries as political

the limits of the Constitution, the States of the sovereignties, and carry to their posts their

* For the sixth paper of this series (which dealt with the organization of the State Department), see St. Nicholas
for April, 18S9.

t "No State shall enter into any treaty, alliance, or confederation " ; and, "No State shall, without the consent
of the Congress . . . enter into any agreement or compact with another State or with a foreign power, or engage
in war, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent danger as will not admit of delays." — (Constitution, Article
I., Section X.) This distinction between State and Federal authority is illustrated in the matter of fugitives from
justice. "A person charged in any State with treason, felony, or other crime, who shall flee from justice and be
found in another State, shall, on demand of the executive authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered
up, to be removed to the State having jurisdiction of the crime." — (Constitution, Article IV., Section II.) In such a
case, the demand is made directly by the authorities of one State upon the authorities of the other. But where a
person fleeing from the vengeance of a State takes refuge in a foreign country, the State appeals to the State De-
partment of the United States, which thereupon makes demand for the surrender of the fugitive. These matters
are provided for in what are known as our " extradition treaties " with other nations, which vary as to the classes of
crimes for which persons may be extradited ; although, in certain instances, from sentiments of international comity,
fugitives have been surrendered by foreign governments, upon our demand, in the absence of any treaty provision
covering the particular cases.

Vol. XVII.— 27. 233

234

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

[Jan.

national credentials, or " letters of credence,"
certifying to their official character, and re-
questing that full faith and credit be given to
their words when speaking for the government
they represent. They hold direct communica-
tion with the government to which they are
accredited, and it is their office to cultivate in-
ternational friendship, to negotiate treaties, and
to adjust international disputes that may arise.

The consular officers, on the other hand, are
stationed at numerous ports and other business
centers abroad, and have no official dealings (ex-
cept in special circumstances) with the sovereign
power of the country wherein they reside. They
represent their countrymen regarded as individ-
uals and not as a political sovereignty, — looking
after commercial interests and individual rights
and leaving to the diplomatic agents of their
government all questions of state.

Under rules formally agreed upon by the
powers of Europe, at the International Con-
gresses of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle (held in the
early part of the present century), and adopted
by the Government of the United States, diplo-
matic agents are divided into four classes: (i)
ambassadors, legates, or nuncios; (2) envoys,
ministers, or other persons accredited to sov-
ereigns ; (3) ministers resident ; and (4) charges
d'affaires accredited to ministers for foreign
affairs. Ambassadors, legates, and nuncios
possess what is styled the " representative "
character. They are supposed to represent the
person of the prince by whom they are sent,
and as such to be entitled to hold direct per-
sonal audience with the sovereign to whom they
are accredited. Our Government neither sends
nor receives diplomats of this grade. Legates
and nuncios represent the Pope, with whom we
have no political relations, and who therefore
has no agent at Washington; and as we have
not seen fit to attach the title of ambassador to
any of the representatives sent out by us, we
have been honored with no ambassadors from
other states. In point of fact, this representa-
tive distinction is of little practical value so far
as it confers the privilege of direct approach to
the throne, for diplomatic business is transacted
nowadays through the Foreign Office of every
leading government and not through personal
audiences with the sovereign head. Still, it

humors the vanity of a diplomat to be called
ambassador ; the title gives him precedence on
ceremonial occasions, and at some capitals it
gives him precedence in securing audience with
the minister for foreign affairs. The United
States, in its treatment of the Diplomatic Coqos
at Washington, disregards the question of title
in matters of business. The ministers take rank
in the diplomatic body according to the order
in which they arrive at the Seat of Govern-
ment and present their credentials, and as to
interviews with the Secretary of State they
are admitted to the audience-room in the
order in which they reach the Department and
present their cards on " Diplomatic Day." A
similar rule as to audiences is recognized at St.
Petersburg, Berlin, and elsewhere, but the fact
that it is not universally observed places our
representatives occasionally at a disadvantage.
In some countries a minister of the United
States may wait for hours in the anteroom of the
Foreign Office to gain an interview on some
state matter of the liveliest importance ; and at
the very last moment, when those outranking
him in title have come and gone and he is about
to take his turn, the representative of some insig-
nificant Asiatic power, who has just arrived with
no other object perhaps than to exchange a few
idle words with the minister for foreign affairs,
goes in ahead, simply because he is styled
" ambassador," and the representative of the
great American Republic may have the door of
the audience-room closed in his face for the day.
This consideration has been the strong plea of
those who urge that our diplomatic representa-
tives to the great powers should be given loftier
titles, to put them on a business equality with
other legations at the same courts.

Our diplomatic service to-day, numbering
upward of sixty men (not counting ordinary em-
ployees in the service of legations), consists of en-
voys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary
(a compound title), ministers resident, charges
d'affaires, secretaries of legation, and inter-
preters ; with now and then an officer detailed
from the War or Navy Department and attached
to a legation as military or naval attache,
for the purpose of studying and reporting to
this Government the military movements of
foreign powers. It also includes a diplomatic

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

235

agent at Cairo, with the title of " agent and
consul-general." The position of Egypt as a
semi-independent power prevents us from estab-
lishing a legation there; but as we have diplo-
matic relations with that country to a limited
extent, we employ the term " agent " for what-
ever it may be worth ; it is not recognized in
European diplomacy. A representative to an
independent sovereignty should have a title
known to the rules laid down at the Congresses
of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle.

It is the privilege of every government to
decide for itself in fixing the grade of its
representatives regardless of the importance
or unimportance of the mission, but ordinary
courtesy would prevent us from sending an
ambassador to Seoul and only a charge d'affaires
to Berlin. Among the great powers com-
pliments are even. They give what they are
given in the way of chief diplomatic officers.
Small powers, while equal to the mightiest in
point of law, are not so fastidious. The head
of our legation at Berlin is an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary ; the chief
representative of German)-, at Washington, is
also an envoy extraordinary and minister
plenipotentiary. We send to Seoul a minister
resident and consul-general ; Corea, however,
outdoes us in style by sending to Washington
a representative of the second grade.

At Berlin we have, besides an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary, a secre-
tary of legation, and a second secretary of
legation ; the same is true of our legations at
London, Paris, Peking, and Tokei, the last two
posts being further re-enforced by an interpreter
each. At each of the several posts of St.
Petersburg, Vienna, Madrid, Constantinople,
Buenos Ayres, Rome, Mexico, Rio de Janeiro,
Lima, Bogota, Santiago, and Caracas, we are
represented by an envoy extraordinary and min-
ister plenipotentiary and a secretary of lega-
tion ; the legation at Constantinople having
also an interpreter.

The Chinese legation at Washington embraces
an envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, a " first secretary," two " secretaries," an

"American secretary," two "translators and
attaches," six " attaches," and two " military
attaches," — the minister being accredited to
Spain and to Peru as well as to the United
States. Japan is represented there by an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, a sec-
retary, counselor, attache, naval attache, and
chancellor.

Besides envoys extraordinary and ministers
plenipotentiary, and one or more secretaries
each, Spain has two civil attaches, Russia a
technical attache, Great Britain a civil attache'
and a naval attach^, and Germany a chancellor
and assistant chancellor. Turkey has an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, and a
secretary of legation ; and (passing the represen-
tatives of other countries without comment)
even Corea, as above noted, sends a complete
force headed by a minister of high rank — an
envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, known on the register of the State Depart-
ment as Pak Chung Yang ; a " second secretary,"
now acting as " charge d'affaires ad interim" Mr.
Ye Ha Yung; another " second secretary," Mr.
Ye Sang Jay; an "attache," Mr. Rang Chin
He, and a "foreign secretary."

The consular service of the United States
numbers upward of a thousand men, classified
as agents and consuls-general, consuls-general,
vice-consuls-general, deputy consuls-general,
consuls, vice-consuls, deputy consuls, commer-
cial agents, vice-commercial agents, deputy
commercial agents, consular agents, consular
clerks, interpreters, marshals, and clerks at con-
sulates.* Consuls-general, consuls, and com-
mercial agents are full, principal, and permanent
consular officers (the title of commercial agent
being peculiar to our system), as distinguished
from deputy consuls and consular agents, who
are subordinate officers, and vice-consuls and
vice-commercial agents, who are consular offi-
cers substituted temporarily to fill the places of
consuls-general, consuls, or commercial agents
during the absence of their principals. A
consul-general is charged with the ordinary
duties of a consul within the limits of his dis-
trict, and with the supervision of the consulates

* In addition to these, there are guards, prison-keepers, and minor employees. The term "consular officer,"
as used by Congress, includes "consuls-general, consuls, commercial agents, deputy consuls, vice-consuls, vice-
commercial agents, and consular agents, and none others."

236

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

and commercial agencies subordinate to him,
so far as that supervision can be exercised
by correspondence. At present, we have con-
sulates-general at Apia, Athens, Bangkok, Bel-
grade, Berlin, Berne, Bogota, Bucharest, Cairo,
Calcutta, Constantinople, Copenhagen, Frank-
fort-on-the-Main, Guatemala, Guayaquil, Hali-
fax, Havana, Honolulu, Kanagawa, La Paz,
Lisbon, London, Matamoros, Melbourne, Mex-
ico, Monrovia, Montreal, Ottawa, Panama,
Paris, Port-au-Prince, Rio de Janeiro, Rome,
Seoul, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Teheran, and
Vienna. But to locate all the other posts in
our consular system would be to send my read-
ers on a geographical hunt through the four
quarters of the globe. We have a consul at
Liverpool and another at Hong-Kong; consuls
at Belfast, Havre, Antwerp, Bremen, Munich,
Trieste, and Bagdad, — others at Rosario, Co-
quimbo, Helsingfors, Muscat, Goree-Dakar, Pa-
ramaribo, Tegucigalpa, and Padang. We have
commercial agents at Castelamare, Reichenberg,
and Butaritari, and also at Levuka, Boma, and
Gaboon. We have consular agents at Alexan-
dretta, Moulmein, Pago-pago, Arica, and Fiume,
at Dyrefjord and at Pugwash, at Lanzarote,
Laraiche, Terceira, Latakia, Acajutla, and Wau-
baushene, at Akyab, Mansourah, Ritzebttttel,
Hodeida, Corcubion, Bucaramanga, Bani-saf,
Sam, Soerabaya, and Tai-wanfoo, to say noth-
ing of such places as Assioot, Bassein, Iloilo,
Llanelly, Rostoff, Majonga, Richibucto, and
Penang !

Great Britain has a consul-general residing
at New York, and consuls, vice-consuls, and
other consular officers at New York, Baltimore,
New Orleans, Boston, San Francisco, Galveston,
Richmond, Eastport, Chicago, St. Paul, Eureka,
Denver, San Diego, Mobile, and other places
within the United States. And at the same or
different American ports and inland cities, we
find consular officials of varying grades, in the
service of France, Germany, Russia, Turkey,
China, and other powers, including a consul-
general of the Orange Free States stationed at

Philadelphia and a consul of the principality of
Monaco located at New York.

Without attempting to go over, by name, the
various countries with whom we exchange diplo-
matic or consular officers, it may be said, gener-
ally, that the interests of the people of the United
States, as a political sovereignty and as individ-
uals, are represented, in one way or the other, at
all the principal capitals and trade centers of the
world, and that all the principal foreign states,
civilized, half-civilized, and barbaric, are repre-
sented here. The exchange, however, is not
entirely uniform or reciprocal. We send, for
instance, no diplomatic agent to the Barbary
States ; but our rights are guarded by a consul
and a vice-consul at Tangiers, and by seven con-
sular agents at seven other towns within that
region. The Barbary States, on the other hand,
are not represented in the United States ; the
same is true of Madagascar, to whom we send
several consular officials, and of Egypt and Rou-
mania, to whom we send both diplomatic and
consular representatives. Bolivia, Honduras,
Liberia, Paraguay, Salvador, Santo Domingo,
Servia, Siam, and Uruguay have only consular
officials in the United States, whereas we have
both classes of representatives within those
realms. But these and other discrepancies may
be accounted for by the special political or busi-
ness relations of the countries involved. Canada,
of course, like other provinces of Great Britain,
looks to the Imperial Government for the pro-
tection of her interests here; and while our
consular service stretches through British Amer-
ica, and British India, and Australia, and through
other parts of Britain's vast dependencies and
possessions, in the negotiation of treaties or set-
tlement of international conflicts relating to any
of those lands the diplomatic authorities at
Washington and London, representing the two
high sovereign states, alone have power to act.
And so in our intercourse with other communi-
ties and dominions, save where treaty provisions
or exceptional conditions may modify the gen-
eral rule.

(To be continued.)

THE DROP-KICK.

By W. T. Bull.

LTHOUGH numerous arti-
cles have been written on the
game of foot-ball, as played
at our colleges at the present
time, the subject has invari-
ably been treated generally,
and no one particular feature,
important as it may be, has ever been accorded
any special attention.

The drop-kick is, of all the different features,
by far the most important and telling factor,
when employed by an experienced player ; but
when attempted by a novice, it becomes at
once dangerous and demoralizing to the rest of
the players, to the rush line in particular.

The instances on record are numerous where
the drop-kick has saved the day, or, at least,
contributed largely to victory. What better
proof of the above assertion could be had than
the story of the Yale-Harvard game played in
1 880 at Cambridge ? The score was a tie,
neither side having been able to secure the lead,
when, at the close of the last half, just a moment
before time was called, Mr. Camp secured a goal
from the field by means of the drop-kick. Will
the Yale team of '87 ever forget the assurance
and general " We-have-got-the-game-sure" man-
ner of the Harvard team as they disported
themselves on the eve of the great battle ? Can
they ever recall without shuddering how the
Harvard men came on the field that day, and,
with a manner confident in the extreme, forced
the Yale team into their own territory and in
close proximity to their goal ? But how quickly
was the tide of battle changed, and this same
spirit of confidence broken, when a goal from
the field placed Yale in the lead by 5 points !
Harvard made but one rally after that, and the
effort was vain.

Other instances might be cited, as, for ex-
ample, when, in '84, Moffatt, of Princeton, kicked
a goal from nearly the center of the field, but

they would be mere repetitions, and it is inter-
esting to inquire more particularly into this most
efficient factor.

In the first place, what is a drop-kick ? The
person making the try, drops the ball and kicks
it after, or at the very instant, it strikes the
ground. Simple as it seems, few people out-
side of immediate college circles could explain
it understandingly. This unfamiliarity with so
elementary a point is surprising in view of the
fact that foot-ball has become one of the most
popular of American games.

There are various ways of making the kick,
but they vary essentially in two particulars only :
the part of the foot used in kicking, and the

FIGURE I.

position which the ball is made to assume on
striking the ground. Of these different ways,
three have been chosen as having proved emi-

2 3 8

nently successful in championship games, and,
as able exponents of each, might be cited,
Camp of Yale, Moffatt of Princeton, and Wat-
kinson, now deceased, who was one of Yale's
famous players.

Camp's style of kick, as illustrated in Fig. i ,
taken just before the ball is dropped, was to
hold the ball in the right hand, turn his left side
toward the goal, and, with a side swing of the
right foot, plant the toe on the middle seam of
the ball directly below the lacings. This style
of kick has its advantages in that a greater
swing of the leg can be attained, thus adding
greater force ; but the mere fact of his holding
the ball in one hand clearly shows, that, to be-
come accurate in this style, one would have to

THE DROP-KICK.

Dak.

FIGURE 2.

devote more time and practice to this than to
the others, where the left hand aids to keep the
ball in the proper position.

Moffatt held the ball in two hands in front

of him, faced the goal, and dropped the ball
with the upper end canted toward him at an
angle, varying with the distance he intended
to cover. (Fig. 2.) This style is both sure and
quick, and differs from Watkinson's style in one
point only — the ball as held by the latter being
canted in exactly the opposite direction, and
pointed directly for the goal.

Watkinson's style, being much more familiar
to me, will be explained more in detail. The
ball is held in the fingers and thumb (both
extended) of the right hand, — as in Fig. 3, —
the left hand being placed on the upper and
left side of the ball. The ball being thus held,
the arms are extended forward and downward,
while the ball is pointed, or sighted as it were,
by the left hand. At the same time the trunk
of the body is bent slightly forward, and the
left leg is planted a little in advance of the
right, so that it sustains, to a great extent, the
weight of the body. The ball is then dropped,
and at the same instant the right leg is drawn
back, poised for one instant in the air, and then
brought with a steady swing forcibly forward,
meeting the ball at the moment it touches the
ground, the trunk of the body at the same time
being thrown back, turning on the hips, thus
adding greater force to the kick.

An example of kicking the ball with the side
of the foot is best illustrated by citing Terry of
Yale, who has a very novel way, quite his own,
that he has employed with success, when very
near the goal, about on the ten-yard line for
example. He takes a position, as in Fig. 4,
has the ball passed very low, receives it in his
hands, arms extended forward at full length,
and with a shoveling motion of the right foot,
which scrapes along the ground, he scoops up
(not kicks) the ball with the side of his foot.

A cool head, quickness in kicking the ball,
and dodging an opponent before kicking are
indispensable adjuncts to success. It is easy
to see, that for a man to stand facing eleven
opponents not twenty yards away, upon whose
faces are clearly portrayed a dogged determina-
tion either to block the ball or upset him,
must require a cool head and the power to con-
centrate all his thoughts and energies on the
ball about to be put in play. He can not do
two things at the same time. Watching the

THE DROP-KICK.

239

ball and the men too, generally results in an
ignominious muff, — a most dangerous accident,
for, with only one man to back him up, prac-
tically a clear field is left for the opposing side to

ens a man's natural ability to dodge. It very
often happens that his opponents reach him
just about the time the ball does, so that it is
quite necessary, before making the try, to dodge
one or more of them. This dodging before
kicking, of course, makes the kick more uncer-
tain. Yet a reasonable amount of accuracy
may be acquired by constant practice.

A player, who tries for goals from the field,
should combine three essential qualities : good
judgment as to the right time to kick and the
distance to be covered, quickness in getting
the ball away after it has been received from
the quarter-back, and, finally, ability to dodge
an opponent before making the try. This last
point is quite necessary to success, for an oppo-
nent is pretty sure to get through, on one side
or the other, to intercept the kick. Therefore,
it is important, in practicing the drop-kick, to
have a man stand in front of the kicker, and,
as the kick is made, block it if possible. Within
the twenty-five-yard line where, in the man's
judgment, a try for goal would be the right play,
it is well to give the signal immediately after the
second down, and in two cases out of three,
unless the signal be known, the opponents will

score a brilliant run. The necessity of quick-
ness in kicking is aptly illustrated in the case of
a certain noted player. Probably there are few,
if any, players in the country, at the present
time, who would compare favorably with him
in a contest for accuracy and long-distance
kicking; with, however, the proviso that an
indefinite amount of time be allowed in which
to kick the ball. But, in a game, this remark-
able aptitude comes to naught; and, without
disparagement to him, his non-success in games
should be attributed not to inability or igno-
rance, but to that most unfortunate of habits
into which players fall in practice, — taking
their time about kicking the ball. Surely, if a
man accustoms himself in daily practice to take
plenty of time to direct the ball, arrange or plant
himself, and watch his opponents at the same
time, he can not expect to go into a game and
do exactly the opposite and still hope for suc-
cess. Either his kick will be blocked, or the
ball will go wide of the mark. This bad habit
of taking so much unnecessary time also dead-

ly »

be taken unawares, will not be prepared for such
a play, and consequently will not be in a posi-
tion to prevent it. Thus the kicker has a free
field, and generally can take plenty of time to

240

THE DROP-KICK.

assure the proper accuracy and success of the
kick. It is much the safer way to catch the ball
in the arms, rather than in the hands, unless
one has, by constant practice, acquired the lat-
ter method. Undoubtedly, from a scientific
standpoint, the latter is the better way, because
time is saved by it; a most important advantage,
for a ball received in the hands may be dropped
immediately, but, being caught in the arms,
must be transferred to the hands first. Begin-
ners, therefore, would do well to learn to catch
in the hands. A very common mistake made
by players, who receive the ball directly in the
hands, is to shift their hands, and the ball too,
in the endeavor to get it in the proper position
for dropping. All this shifting is unnecessary,
and wastes valuable time, so that in two cases out
of three the outcome is that the ball is blocked.

A simple movement of the arms alone, and a
gentle turn of the ball in the right direction, as
it is dropped, is all that is required, and not an
instant of time is wasted. One great secret of
success is to drop the ball in exactly the posi-
tion in which it is held by the hands. Both
hands should be taken from the ball at the same
time, for one can easily see that if either were
taken off first the ball would be likely to tip to
one side and thus destroy the aim. The ball
should be kicked the instant it touches the
ground without waiting till it is in the air,
otherwise much of the force of the kick will be
lost.

By constant practice every man should be-
come able to use the left foot as well as the
right. Especially is ability to kick with either
foot necessary when very near the goal. Such
an attainment not only saves time by allowing the
use of the left foot for kicks on the left of the goal,
and vice versa, but it bothers the opponents.
For example, a right tackle breaks through,
and makes directly for the kicker. In this case
the use of the right foot enables a man to kick
without moving from his position, providing the
ball comes all right and in time ; but in the use
of the left foot, there is a possibility of kicking

directly into the tackle. Thus a man who
could use only his left foot would be forced to
dodge the tackle first, and thus in a measure
lose the accuracy of his aim, as well as valu-
able time.

The kicker should be the man to give the
signal for the drop, and he should be careful
to give it before the team has lined-up, thus
affording each man plenty of time to think about
his special line of action, and enabling him to
act upon that line promptly. For example,
suppose the right half-back is to give the sig-
nal. In this case, the back takes a position a
little in the rear and to one side of him for the
purpose of dropping on the ball, should the pass
be a bad one, or be muffed, or the ball be kicked
into an opponent. The left half-back goes up
into the rush line, and generally takes, as the
man for him to block, an opposing half-back,
or the quarter-back ; the quarter-back, after
passing the ball, takes the first man he sees
who has no one to oppose him. Generally this
man will be one of the backs, or the quarter-
back. But these different positions should never
be taken until the ball is snapped by the center,
otherwise the opponents will surely anticipate
the play about to be attempted, and probably
spoil it.

It should not be supposed for a moment,
however, that just because the signal for a kick
has been given, a man is in duty bound to make
the try, for oftentimes a rare opportunity will
offer itself for a run around the ends. Then,
too, the ball may come badly, the opponents be
too close, or a dozen other contingencies arise,
which forbid the kick. It is the ability to judge
of all these circumstances that makes the suc-
cessful kicker, and the indifference to them the
unsuccessful one.

A man, then, who devotes his time and atten-
tion to the thorough mastery of drop-kicking,
becomes not only a sought-after player, but also
one who, more frequently than any other, has
at his very feet the opportunity of securing
victory for his side.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

THIRD PAPER.

By Walter Camp.

i J

■¥'- - -4

wwm

THE FOOT-BALL TEAM STARTING FOR THE FOLO GROUNDS.

If there be anything that might make a
momentary ripple upon the steady, resistless
stream of New York life it should certainly be
one of these foot-ball games. While there are
plenty of base-ball enthusiasts, they possess their
souls and their enthusiasm in patience before
they reach, and after they leave, the grounds.
But the collegian has no sense of repression,
and his enthusiasm annually stirs up the sober,
sedate dignity of Fifth Avenue from the Bruns-
wick to the Park. A few years ago the wise-
acres said : " No one will come to a game on
Thanksgiving Day. New Yorkers will never
give up their annual dinner for anything under
the sun." At the latest game played on that day
fifteen thousand people postponed their annual
dinner to see the Yale- Harvard match. Perhaps
nothing will better illustrate the pitch to which
the interest has attained than to take the ride
to the grounds, first with the spectators then
with the team. Coaches have been bringing
as high as a hundred and twenty-five dollars
apiece for the day, and even at that price are
Vol. XVII.— 28. 2,

engaged weeks before the contest. Stages are
resorted to. The old 'bus appears in rejuven-
ated habiliments, bedecked with great streamers
of partisan colors, and freighted with the eager
sympathizers of the red or the blue. Long
before noon, tally-hos draw up before the up-
town hotels and are soon bearing jolly parties
out to the grounds, in order to make sure of
a place close to the ropes. The corridors of
the Fifth Avenue, Hoffman, and Windsor have
for twelve hours been crowded by college boys
eagerly discussing the prospects of the rival
teams. Any word from the fortunate ones who
are permitted to visit the teams is seized and
passed from mouth to mouth as eagerly as
if upon the outcome of the match hung the
fate of nations. The condition of Jones's ankle
is fraught with the utmost interest, and all the
boys heave sighs of relief at hearing that he will
be able to play.

Having talked over the state of affairs all the
evening, and until noon of the momentous day,
each boy is thoroughly primed to tell his sister

242

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Jan.

(and particularly his chum's sister) all about
every individual member of his own team, as
well as to throw in the latest gossip concerning
the opponents. He is frequently interrupted
in this conversation held on the top of the
coach, by the necessity of stopping to cheer
some house where his colors are displayed in
the windows, or to salute some passing tally-ho
from which the similarly colored ribbons dangle
and banners wave.

Arrived on the grounds, the coaches are

Having followed the spectators out, and seen
them safely and advantageously placed, let us
ride back and return with one of the teams. We
find the men (who have been confined all the
morning, between four walls in order to prevent
their talking over the chances, and thus becom-
ing anxious and excited) just finishing their
luncheon. They eat but little, as, in spite of their
assumed coolness, there is no player who is not
more or less nervous over the result. Hurriedly
leaving the table, they go to their rooms and put

THE POLO GROUNDS Dl'KING A MATCH.

drawn up in line, and while anxiously awaiting
the advent of the two teams, the appearance
of each crimson or blue flag becomes an excuse
for another three times three. And how smartly
the boys execute their cheers ! The Yale cry
is sharper and more aggressive, but the Harvard
boys get more force and volume into theirs.
The fair faces of the girls are as flushed with
excitement as are those of the men, and their
hearts no less in the cheering.

on their uniforms. One after another they
assemble in the Captain's room, and, if one
might judge from the appearances of their can-
vas jackets and begrimed trousers, they are
not a set of men to fear a few tumbles. Finally
they all have appeared, the last stragglers still
engaged in lacing up their jackets. The Cap-
tain then says a few words of caution or encour-
agement to them, as he thinks best. He is evi-
dently in dead earnest, and so are they, for you

iSgo.)

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

243

might hear a pin drop as he talks in a low voice
of the necessity of each man's rendering a good
account of himself. Thoughtfully they file out of
the room, troop down the stairs, and out through
the side entrance where the coach is waiting
for them. Then the drive to the grounds, —
very different from the noisy, boisterous one
we have just taken with the admirers of these
same men. Hardly a word is spoken after
the first few moments, and one fairly feels the
atmosphere of determination settling down upon
them as they bowl along through the Park.
Every man has his own thoughts and keeps
them to himself, for they have long ago dis-
cussed their rivals, and each man has mentally
made a comparison between himself and the
man he is to face, until there is little left to
say. Now they leave the Park and rumble up
to the big north gate of the Polo Grounds. As
they crawl leisurely through the press of car-
riages, everything makes way for them, and the
people in line for tickets stare at the coach for a
glimpse of the players. They are soon in, and
jumping out at the dressing-rooms, run in and
throw off outside coats, still keeping on the
heavy sweaters. Now comes a slight uneasy
delay, as it is not yet quite time to go out on
the field lest their rivals keep them waiting there
too long in the chill air. This is in truth the
manvais quart d'heure of the foot-ball player,
for the men's nerves are strung to a high pitch.
Perhaps some one begins to discuss a play or the
signals, and in a few minutes the players are in
a fair way to become thoroughly mixed, when
the Captain utters a brief but expressive, " Shut
up there, will you ? " and growls out something
about all knowing the signals well enough if
they '11 quit discussing them. A short silence
follows, and then they receive the word to come
out. As they approach the great black mass
of people and carriages surrounding the ground,
they feel the pleasant stimulus of the crisp fresh
air, and their hearts begin to swell within them
as they really scent the battle. Just as they
break through the crowd into the open field, a
tremendous cheer goes up from the throats of
their friends, and the eager desire seizes them
to dash in and perform some unusual deed of
skill and strength.

The Polo Grounds have fallen before the

advance of city streets. That old inclosure, the
scene of some most exciting college contests,
will never again resound with the mad cheer
of enthusiastic spectators, but there will be
handed down to boys coming after, the mem-
ory and story of some grand old games, and
there will always be a touch in common among
the old players who saw service on those
grounds.

The Costume and Training.

The old-fashioned woolen jersey has given
place, in great measure, to the less comfortable
but more serviceable canvas jacket. This
change was first made by a team of Trinity
College, of Hartford. There had been a few
rumors afloat to the effect that there was a new
foot-ball garment, made of canvas, which ren-
dered it almost impossible to catch or hold the
wearer. No one at the other colleges had paid
much attention to
this report, and it
was not until the
Trinity team stepped
out of their dressing-
rooms at Hamilton
Park that the Yale
men first saw the
new canvas jackets.
Strange enough they
appeared in those
early days, too, as
the Trinity eleven
marched out on the
field in their white
jackets laced up in
front. It gave them
quite a military air,
for the jackets were
cut in the bobtail
fashion of the cadets.
The men in blue
looked contemptuously down upon the innova-
tion upon the regulation jersey, and it was no',
until they had played for nearly half an hour, and
had had many Trinity players slip easily through
their fingers, that they were ready to admit that
there was some virtue in the jacket. The Trin-
ity men, bound to give the new costume a fair

I'HE OLD WOOLEN

244

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Jan.

trial, had brought some grease out with them,
and each jacket had been thoroughly besmeared.
They were therefore as difficult to grasp as eels,
and it was not until the Yale men had counter-
acted this by grasping great handfuls of sand
that they were able to do anything like suc-
cessful tackling. This, then, was the beginning
of the canvas jacket, and although the greas-
ing process was not continued (in fact, it was
stopped by the insertion of a rule forbidding it),
the jacket itself was a true improvement, and it
was not long before all the teams were wearing
them. The superiority of the canvas jacket over
the jersey lies in the fact that it gives much less
hold for the fingers of the tackier, and also that
it does not keep stretching until it offers an easy
grasp, as does the jersey.

The next article of the foot-baller's costume
which demanded particular attention was the
shoe. Probably, in spite of all the trials and
the great exercise of inventive faculty bestowed
upon the sole of a foot-ball man's shoe, there is
to-day no better device for all fields and all
weathers than the straight cross-leather strips
which were used in the first year of the sport.
They are shown in diagram I of the accom-
panying cut. One of the earliest plans was to
lay out these strips in various different lines
across the sole in order to present an edge, no
matter in what direction the foot was turned.
This gave rise to as many styles as there were
men on a team. The cuts show a few of these
(diagrams II, III, IV).

Rubber soles were also tried, but they r proved
heavy, and when the ground was wet they did
not catch as well as the leather strips. We have
not yet seen a trial made of the felt soles which
are now used in tennis, but these probably
would not answer for kicking, as they would
not be sufficiently stiff.

The trousers also have quite a history. At
first, several of the teams wore woven knicker-
bockers made of the same material as the
jersey. These fitted them tight to the skin,
and, although they offered very little obstruction
to the freedom of a man's gait, they neither were
things of beauty nor did they prove much of a
joy to the wearers, for when a hole was once
started it spread most amazingly. Another
serious feature was that when a game was played

on frozen ground every tumble and slide left its
mark not only on the trousers, but also on the
player's skin beneath, as these trunks offered
almost no protection. The next remove from
these " tights," as they were expressively called,
was to flannel knickerbockers. These prevailed
ior a season, but they were not stout enough for
the rough work of the game, and many a youth
has needlessly enlisted the sympathy of the ten-
der hearts in the audience, when his comrades
gathered about him and bore him from the field,
only, however, to reappear again — such a plucky
young man ! — in a few moments. Some of the
more kno wing ones noticed that the trousers worn
by the young man on his second appearance were
not the same as those in which he began the
game. Corduroy was tried with no better re-
sults than flannel. The most approved cloth
now in use among the players is a sort of heavy
fustian, and even these are thickly padded at
the knees and along the sides of the thighs.

The caps ran through a series of changes from
a little skull-cap to the long-tasseled affair called
a toboggan toque. The only really serviceable
innovation was a cap with a broad visor, to be
worn by the backs and half-backs when facing
the sun. The stockings are thicker than they
used to be, but otherwise there has been no
change. The foot-ball player of to-day puts on
a suit of flannels underneath his uniform, and if
his canvas jacket is a little loose or the day cold,
he wears a jersey next the jacket on the inside.

His shoes are of stout leather with straight
strips across the soles ; and, if they have become
a little stretched from constant use, an extra pair

of socks underneath the woolen ones gives his
feet a more comfortable feeling.

He is better dressed to avoid bruises than the
old-time player, but the canvas jacket is hard to
play in, and such men as the quarter-back, who
have little opportunity to make runs but much

1890.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IX AMERICA.

245

stooping to do, still cling to the jersey. The
back also can dispense with the canvas jacket
if he finds it very irksome, but as a rule every
one but the quarter is better dressed for service
if in canvas rather than a jersey.

To come to the more
particular points of the
diet and exercise suitable
for a foot-ball player.
Long experience has
shown that men who are
training for this sport
must not be brought
down too fine. They
should be undertrained
rather than overtrained.
The reason for this is
that an overtrained man
becomes too delicate for ^f^
the rough, hard work

and perceptibly loses his vigor after a few sharp
struggles. The season of the year is favorable
to good work, and it is not difficult to keep men
in shape. They should be given a hearty break-
fast of the regulation steaks, chops, stale bread ;
nor will a cup of coffee hurt a man who has always
been in the habit of having it. Fruit also can be
had in the early part of the season, and it is an
excellent thing to begin the breakfast. About
ten or eleven o'clock the men should practice for
a half hour or so. The rushers should be made
to pass the ball, fall on it when it is rolling
along the ground, catch short high kicks. They
should also be put through some of their plays
by signal. The half-backs and back practice
punting and drop-kicking, not failing to do some
place-kicking as well. The quarter-back should
pass the ball for them and also do some passing
on his own account in order to increase the ra-
pidity of his throwing as well as the distance to
which he can pass the ball. The half-backs and
back should be made to take all the fly catching
they have time for, and it is best to have some
one running toward them while they are per-
forming the catch, that they may become ac-
customed to it. A very light lunch should be
served at about one o'clock. It should consist
of cold meats, toast, warm potatoes, eggs if
agreeable ; in fact, no great restriction should be

placed upon the appetite of the men at any of
the meals except where certain things manifestly
disagree with certain individuals. Nothing very
hearty should be given them at noon, however.
At half-past two — or, better, at three — they

A TACKLE.

should start for the grounds anil then play
against a scrub team for an hour and a half.
When they have had their baths, and been well
rubbed down, it is about five o'clock, and in an
hour from that time they will eat more dinner
than any other set of men in training. No al-
coholic beverages are permissible except for par-
ticular cases, as, for a man who is getting too
" fine " a little ale is not out of the way and
may give him a better appetite and better night's
rest. Plenty of sleep is indispensable. One
other feature should be mentioned, which is.
that as the rule for foot-ball games is " play,
rain or shine," a team must practice in bad
weather. Notwithstanding the fact that one
would naturally predict colds for the men from
practice in the rain, experience teaches quite
the opposite. A cold is almost unheard of, and
when it does occur is always traceable directly
to some foolish exposure after the playing is
over; as, for instance, remaining in the wet
clothes. This must on no account be allowed.
If the men are put into their baths, and dressed
immediately after in wann, dry clothes, they
will never take cold.

These above points are the vital ones in the
foot-ball training and give a general view of the
course to be pursued. The smaller technicali-
ties every captain must discover for himself.

( To be continued.)

^risTm^^Sntne roily

By Grac

IT was the good ship " Polly," and
she sailed die wintry sea,
For ships must sail tho' fierce the gale,
and a precious freight had she ;
'T was the captain's little daughter stood

beside her father's chair.
And illumed the dingy cabin with the sun-
shine of her hair.

With a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho .'

For ships must sail
Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests /'low.

=fe?.' "A, C-T-HH-L-

And make believe the stove-pipe is a chim-
ney — just for me ?"

Loud laughed the jovial captain, and " By my

faith," he cried,
If he should come we '11 let him know he has

a friend inside!"
And many a rugged sailor cast a loving glance

that night

The captain's fingers rested on the pretty,

curly head.
" To-morrow will be Christmas-day," the

little maiden said ;
" Do you suppose that Santa Glaus will find

us on the sea,

CHRISTMAS ON THE "POLLY.

247

At the stove-pipe where a lonely little
stocking fluttered white.

Willi a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho I

For ships must sail
Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blow.

On the good ship " Polly " the Christmas

sun looked down,
And on a smiling little face beneath a

golden crown.
No happier child he saw that day, on

sea or on the land,
Than the captain's little daughter with

her treasures in her hand.

For never was a stocking so filled with curious

things !
There were bracelets made of pretty shells,

and rosy coral strings ;
An elephant carved deftly from a bit of ivory

tusk ;
A fan, an alligator's tooth, and a little bag of

musk.

Not a tar aboard the " Polly " but felt the

Christmas cheer,
For the captain's little daughter was to every

sailor dear.
They heard a Christmas carol in the shrieking

wintry gust,
For a little child had touched them by her

simple, loving trust.

With a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho !

For ships must sail

Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blow.

■■:*■■,

**B

"Pgg^g

CROWDED OUT O' CROFIELD.

By William O. Stoddard.

THE RUNAWAY.

"THE WAGON TILTED FEARFULLY, AND THE NIGH WHEEL WAS IN THE AIR FOR A MOMENT, UNTIL
JACK'S WEIGHT HELPED BRING IT DOWN AGAIN."

Chapter I.

" I 'm going to the city ! "

He stood in the wide door of the blacksmith-
shop, with his hands in his pockets, looking
down the street, toward the rickety old bridge
over the Cocahutchie. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled-faced boy, and if he was really only the anvil leaned a tall, muscular, dark-haired,
about fifteen, he was tall for his age. Across
the tup of the door, over his head, stretched
a cracked and faded sign, with a horseshoe

The forge was in the middle, on one side,
and near it was hitched a horse, pawing the
ground with a hoof that bore a new shoe. On
the anvil was a brilliant, yellow-red loop of iron,
that was not quite yet a new shoe, and it was
sending out bright sparks as a hammer fell upon
it. — " thud, thud, thud," and a clatter. Over

painted on one end and a hammer on the other,
and the name "John Ogden," almost faded out,
between them.

grimy man. His face wore a disturbed and
anxious look, and it was covered with charcoal
dust. There was altogether too much charcoal
along the high bridge of his Roman nose and
over his jutting eyebrows.

The boy in the door also had some charcoal

The blacksmith-shop was a great, rusty, grimy on his cheeks and forehead, but none upon his
clutter of work-benches, vises, tools, iron in bars nose. His nose was not precisely like the black-
and rods, and all sorts of old iron scraps and smith's. It was high and Roman half-way
things that looked as if they needed making over, down, but just there was a little dent, and the

=48

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

249

rest of the nose was straight. His complexion,
excepting the freckles and charcoal, was chiefly
sunburn, down to the neckband of his blue
checked shirt. He was a tough, wiry-looking
boy, and there was a kind of smiling, self-confi-
dent expression in his blue-gray eyes and around
his firm mouth.

" I 'm going to the city!" he said, again, in a
low but positive voice. " I '11 get there, some-
how."

Just then a short, thick-set man came hurry-
ing past him, into the shop. He was probably
the whitest man going into that or any other
shop, and he spoke out, at once, very fast, but
with a voice that sounded as if it came through
a bag of meal.

" Ogden," said he, " got him shod ? If you
have, I '11 take him. What do you say about
that trade ? "

" I don't want any more room than there is
here," said the blacksmith, "and I don't care
to move my shop."

" There 's nigh onto two acres, mebbe more,
all along the creek from below the mill to Dea-
con Hawkins's line, below the bridge," wheezed
the mealy, floury, dusty man, rapidly. " I '11
get two hundred for it some day, ground or no
ground. Best place for a shop."

" This lot suits me," said the smith, hammer-
ing away. " 'T would n't pay me to move, — not
in these times."

The miller had more to say, while he un-
hitched his horse, but he led him out without
getting any more favorable reply about the
trade.

" Come and blow, Jack," said the smith, and
the boy in the door turned promptly to take the
handle of the bellows.

The little heap of charcoal and coke in the
forge brightened and sent up fiery tongues, as
the great leathern lungs wheezed and sighed,
and Jack himself began to puff.

" I 've got to have a bigger man than you
are, for a blower and striker," said the smith.
" He 's coming Monday morning. It 's time
you were doing something, Jack."

" Why, father," said Jack, as he ceased pulling

on the bellows, and the shoe came out of the

fire, " I 've been doing something ever since

I was twelve. - Been working here since May,

Vol. XVII.— 29.

and lots o' times before that. Learned the
trade, too."

" You can make a nail, but you can't make a
shoe," said his father, as he sizzed the bit of bent
iron in the water-tub and then threw it on the
ground. " Seven. That 's all the shoes I '11 make
this morning, and there are seven of you at home.
Your mother can't spare Molly, but you '11 have
to do something. It is Saturday, and you can
go fishing, after dinner, if you 'd like to. There
's nothin' to ketch 'round here, either. Worst
times there ever were in Crofield."

There was gloom as well as charcoal on the
face of the blacksmith, but Jack's expression
was only respectfully serious as he walked
away, without speaking, and again stood in the
door for a moment.

" I could catch something in the city. I know
I could," he said, to himself. " How on earth
shall I get there ? "

The bridge, at the lower end of the sloping
side-street on which the shop stood, was long
and high. It was made to fit the road and was
a number of sizes too large for the stream of
water rippling under it. The side-street climbed
about twenty rods the other way into what was
evidently the Main street of Crofield. There
was a tavern on one corner, and across the street
from that there was a drug store and in it was the
post-office. On the two opposite corners were
shops, and all along the Main street were all sorts
of business establishments, sandwiched in among
the dwellings.

It was not yet noon, but Crofield had a
sleepy look, as if all its work for the whole week
were done. Even the horses of the farmers'
teams, hitched in front of the stores, looked
sleepy. Jack Ogden took his longest look, this
time, at a neat, white-painted frame-house across
the way.

" Seems to me there is n't nearly so much
room in it as there used to be," he said to him-
self. "It 's just packed and crowded. I 'm
going!"

He turned and walked on up toward Main
street, as if that were the best thing he could
do till dinner time. Not many minutes later,
a girl plainly but neatly dressed came slowly
along in front of the village green, away up
Main street. She was tall and slender, and her

250

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

[Jan.

hair and eyes were as dark as those of John
Ogden, the blacksmith. Her nose was dike
his, too, except that it was finer and not so
high, and she wore very much the same
anxious, discontented look upon her face.
She was walking slowly, because she saw, com-
ing toward her, a portly lady, with hair so flaxy
that no gray would show in it. She was ele-
gantly dressed. She stopped and smiled and
looked very condescending.

" Good-morning, Mary Ogden," she said.

" Good-morning, Miss Glidden," said Mary,
the anxious look in her eyes changing to a
gleam that made them seem very wide awake.

" It 's a fine morning, Mary Ogden, but so
very warm. Is your mother well ? "

" Very well, thank you," said Mary.

"And is your aunt well, — and your father,
and all the children ? I 'm so glad they 're well.
Elder Holloway 's to be here to-morrow. Hope
you '11 all come. I shall be there myself.
You 've had my class a number of times. Much
obliged to you. I '11 be there to-morrow. You
must hear the Elder. He 's to inspect the Sun-
day-school."

"Your class, Miss Glidden?" began Mary;
and her face suggested that somebody was
blowing upon a kind of fire, inside her
cheeks, and that they would be very red in
a minute.

" Yes ; don't fail to be there to-morrow, Mary.
The choir '11 be full, of course. I shall be there
myself."

"I hope you will, Miss Glidden — "

The portly lady saw something up the street,
at that moment.

" Oh my ! What is it ? Dear me ! It 's corn-
ing ! Run ! We '11 all be killed ! Oh my ! "

She had turned quite around, while she was
speaking, and was once more looking up the
street ; but the dark-haired girl had neither
flinched nor wavered. She had only sent a
curious, inquiring glance, in the direction of the
shouts and the rattle and the cloud of dust that
were coming swiftly toward them.

" A runaway team," she said, quietly. " No-
body 's in the wagon."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Glidden; but
Mary began to move away, looking not at her
but at the runaway, and she did not hear the

rest. " Mary Ogden 's too uppish. — Somebody
'11 be killed, I know they will! — She 's got to be
taken down.— There they come ! — Dressed too
well for a blacksmith's daughter. Does n't know
her place. — Oh dear ! I'm so frightened ! "

Perhaps she had been wise in getting behind
the nearest tree. It was a young maple, two
inches through, lately set out, but it might have
stopped a pair of very small horses. Those in the
road were large — almost too large to run well.
They were well-matched grays, and they came
thundering along in a way that was really fine
to behold ; heads down, necks arched, nostrils
wide, reins flying, the wagon behind them bang-
ing and swerving — no wonder everybody stood
still and, except Mary Ogden, shouted, " Stop
'em ! " One young fellow, across the street,,
stood still only until the runaways were all but
close by him. Then he darted out into the
street, not ahead of them but behind them. No
man on earth could have stopped those horses
by standing in front of them. They could
have charged through a regiment. Their
heavy, furious gallop was fast, too, and the
boy who was now following them must have
been as light of foot as a young deer.

" Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Go it, Jack ! Catch
'em ! Bully for you ! " arose from a score of
people along the sidewalk, as he bounded
forward.

" It 's Jack ! Oh dear me ! But it 's just like
him ! There ! He 's in ! " exclaimed Mary
Ogden, her dark eyes dancing proudly.

" Why, it 's that good-for-nothing brother
of Mary Ogden. He 's the blacksmith's boy.
I 'm afraid he will be hurt," remarked Miss
Glidden, kindly and benevolently; but all the
rest shouted " Hurrah ! " again.

Fierce was the strain upon the young runner,
for a moment, and then his hands were on the
back-board of the bouncing wagon. A tug, a
spring, a swerve of the wagon, and Jack Ogden
was in it, and in a second more the loosely fly-
ing reins were in his hands.

The strong arms of his father, were they twice
as strong, could not at once have pulled in those
horses, and one man on the sidewalk seemed
to be entirely correct, when he said, " He 's a.
plucky little fellow, but he can't do a thing, now
he 's there."

iSao. |

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

251

His sister was trembling all over, but she was
repeating : " He did it splendidly ! He can do
anything ! "

Jack, in the wagon, was thinking only : " I
know 'em. They 're old Hammond's team.
They '11 try to go home to the mill. They '11
smash everything, if I don't look out ! "

It is something, even to a greatly frightened
horse, to feel a hand on the rein. The team in-
tended to turn out of Main street, at the corner,
and they made the turn, but they did not crash
the wagon to pieces against the corner post,
because of the desperate guiding that was done
by Jack. The wagon swung around without
upsetting. It tilted fearfully, and the nigh
wheel was in the air for a moment, until Jack's
weight helped bring it down again. 1'here was a
short sharp scream across the street, when the
wagon swung and the wheel went up.

Down the slope toward the bridge thundered
the galloping team, and the blacksmith ran out
of his shop to see it pass.

" Turn them into the creek, Jack ! " he shouted,
but there was no time for any answer.

" They 'd smash through the bridge," thought
Jack. " I know what I 'm about."

There were wheel-marks down from the
street, at the left of the bridge, where many a
team had descended to drink the water of the
Cocahutchie, but it required all Jack's strength
on one rein to make, his runaways take that
direction. They had thought of going toward
the mill, but they knew the watering-place.

Not many rods below the bridge stood a
clump of half a dozen gigantic trees, remnants
of the old forest which had been replaced by
the streets of Crofield and the farms around it.
Jack's pull on the left rein was obeyed only too
well, and it looked, for some seconds, as if the
plunging beasts were about to wind up their
maddened dash by a wreck among those gnarled
trunks and projecting roots. Jack drew his
breath hard, and there was almost a chill at his
young heart, but he held hard and said nothing.

Forward, — one plunge more, — hard on the
right rein —

" That was close!" he said. " If we did n't
go right between the big maple and the cherry !
Now I 've got 'em ! "

Splash, crash, rattle ! Spattering and plung-

ing, but cooling fast, the gray team galloped
along the shallow bed of the Cocahutchie.

" I wish the old swimming-hole was deeper,"
said Jack, " but the water 's very low. Whoa,
boys ! Whoa, there ! Almost up to the hub —
over the hub ! Whoa, now ! "

And the gray team ceased its plunging and
stood still in water three feet deep.

" I must n't let 'em drink too much," said
Jack; "but a little won't hurt 'em."

The horses were trembling all over, but one
after the other they put their noses into the
water, and then raised their heads to prick their
ears back and forth and look around.

" Don't bring 'em ashore till they 're quiet,
Jack," called out the deep, ringing voice of his
father, from the bank.

There he stood, and other men were coming,
on the run. The tall blacksmith's black eyes
were flashing with pride over the daring feat his
son had performed.

" I dare n't tell him, though," he said to
himself. " He 's set up enough, a'ready. He
thinks he can do 'most anything."

" Jack," wheezed a mealy voice at his side,
"that 's my team — "

" I know it," said Jack. " They 're all right
now. Pretty close shave through the trees,
that was ! "

" I owe ye fifty dollars for a-savin' them and
the wagin," said the miller. " It 's wuth it,
and I '11 pay it ; but I 've got to owe it to ye,
jest now. Times are awful hard in Crofield.
If I 'd ha' lost them hosses and that wagin — "

He stopped short, as if he could not exactly
say how disastrous it would have been for him.

There was a running fire of praise and of
questions poured at Jack, by the gathering knot
of people on the shore, and it was several min-
utes before his father spoke again.

" They 're cool, now," he said. " Turn 'em,
Jack, and walk 'em out by the bridge, and up to
the mill. Then come home to dinner."

Jack pretended not to see quite a different
kind of group gathered under the clump of tall
trees. Not a voice had come to him from that
group of lookers-on, and yet the fact that they
were there made him tingle all over.

Two large, freckle-faced, sandy-haired women
were hugging each other, and wiping their eyes ;

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

[Jan.

and a very small girl was tugging at their dresses
and crying, while a pair of girls of from twelve
to fourteen, close by them, seemed very much
inclined to dance. Two small boys, who at first
belonged to the party, had quickly rolled up
their trousers and waded out as far as they
could into the Cocahutchie. Just in front of
the group, under the trees, stood Mary Ogden,
straight as an arrow, her dark eyes flashing and
her cheeks glowing while she looked silently
at the boy on the wagon in the stream, until she
saw him wheel the grays. Even then she did
not say anything, but turned and walked away.
It was as if she had so much to say that she
felt she could not say it.

" Aunt Melinda ! Mother ! " said one of the
girls, " Jack is n't hurt a mite. They 'd all
ha' been drowned, though, if there was water
enough."

" Hush, Bessie," said one of the large women,
and the other at once echoed, "Hush, Bessie."

They were very nearly alike, these women,
and they both had long, straight noses, such as
Jack's would have been, if half-way down it
had not been Roman, like his father's.

" Mary Ann," said the first woman, " we
must n't say too much to him about it. He
can only just be held in, now."

" Hush, Melinda," said Jack's mother. " I
thought I 'd seen the last of him when the
gray critters came a-powderin' down the road
past the house" — and then she wiped her eyes
again, and so did Aunt Melinda, and they both
stooped down at the same moment, saying,
"Jack 's safe, Sally," and picked up the small
girl, who was crying, and kissed her.

The gray team was surrendered to its owner
as soon as it reached the road at the foot of the
bridge, and again Jack was loudly praised by the
miller. The rest of the Ogden family seemed to
be disposed to keep away, but the tall black-
smith himself was there.

" Jack," said he, as they turned away home-
ward, " you can go fishing this afternoon, just
as I said. I was thinking of your doing some-
thing else afterward, but you 've done about
enough for one day."

He had more to say, concerning what would
have happened to the miller's horses, and the
number of pieces the wagon would have been

knocked into, but for the manner in which the
whole team had been saved.

When they reached the house the front door
was open, but nobody was to be seen. Bob
and Jim, the two small boys, had not yet
returned from seeing the gray span taken to
the mill, and the women and girls had gone
through to the kitchen.

"Jack," said his father, as they went in, " old
Hammond '11 owe you that fifty dollars long
enough. He never really pays anything."

" Course he does n't — not if he can help it,"
said Jack. " I worked for him three months,
and you know we had to take it out in feed.
I learned the mill trade, though, and that
was something."

Just then he was suddenly embarrassed. Mrs.
Ogden had gone through the house and out at
the back door, and Aunt Melinda had followed
her, and so had the girls. Molly had suddenly
gone upstairs to her own room. Aunt Melinda
had taken everything off the kitchen stove and
put everything back again, and here now was
Mrs. Ogden back again, hugging her son.

" Jack," she said, " don't you ever, ever, do
such a thing again. You might ha' been knocked
into slivers ! "

Molly had gone up the back stairs only to
come down the front way, and she was now a
little behind them.

" Mother ! " she exclaimed, as if her pent-up
admiration for her brother was exploding,
"you ought to have seen him jump in, and
you ought to have seen that wagon go around
the corner ! "

"Jack," broke in the half-choked voice of
Aunt Melinda from the kitchen doorway,
" come and eat something. I felt as if I knew
you were killed, sure. If you have n't earned
your dinner, nobody has."

" Why, I know how to drive," said Jack.
" I was n't afraid of 'em after I got hold of the
reins."

He seemed even in a hurry to get through his
dinner, and some minutes later he was out in the
garden, digging for bait. The rest of the family
remained at the table longer than usual, espe-
cially Bob and Jim ; but, for some reason known
to herself, Mary did not say a word about her
meeting with Miss Glidden. Perhaps the miller's

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

253

gray team had run away with all her interest in
that, but she did not even tell how carefully
Miss Glidden had inquired after the family.

" There goes Jack," she said, at last, and they
all turned to look.

He did not say anything as he passed the
kitchen door, but he had his long cane fishing-
pole over his shoulder. It had a line wound
around it, ready for use. He went out of the
gate and down the road toward the bridge, and
gave only a glance across at the shop.

" I did n't get many worms," he said to him-
self, at the bridge, " but I can dig some more,
if the fish bite. Sometimes they do, and some-
times they don't."

Over the bridge he went, and up a wagon
track on the opposite bank, but he paused for
one moment, in the very middle of the bridge,
to look upstream.

" There 's just enough water to run the mill,"
he said. " There is n't any coming over the
dam. The pond 's even full, though, and it
may be a good day for fish. — I wish I was in
the city ! "

Chapter II.

Saturday afternoon was
before Jack Ogden,
when he came out
at the water's edge,
near the dam, across
from the mill. That
was there, big
and red and
rusty-looking;
and the dam was
there ; and above
them was the
mill - pond,
spreading out
over a number
of acres, and ornamented with stumps, old
logs, pond-lilies, and weeds. It was a fairly
good pond, the best that Cocahutchie Creek
could do for Crofield, but Jack's face fell a little
as he looked at it.

" There are more fellows than fish here," he
said to himself, with an air of disgust.

There was a boy at the end of the dam near
him, and a boy in the middle of it, and two boys

at the flume, near the mill. There were three
punts out on the water, and one of them had
in it a man and two boys, while the second boat
held but one man, and the third contained four.
A big stump near the north shore supported a
boy, and the old snag jutting out from the south
shore held a boy and a man.

There they all were, sitting perfectly still,
until, one after another, each rod and line came
up to have its hook and bait examined, to see
whether or not there had really been a bite.

" I 'm fairly crowded out," remarked Jack.
" Those fellows have all the good places. I '11
have to go somewhere else ; where '11 I go ? "

He studied that problem for a full minute,
while every fisherman there turned to look at
him and then turned back to watch his line.

" I guess I '11 try down stream," said Jack.
" Nobody ever caught anything down there, and
nobody ever goes there, but I s'pose I might as
well try it, just for once."

He turned away along the track over which
he had come. He did not pause at the road
and bridge, but went on down the further bank
of the Cocahutchie. It was a pretty stream
of water, and it spread out wide and shallow,
and rippled merrily among stones and boulders
and clumps of willow and alder for nearly
half a mile. Gradually, then, it grew narrower,
quieter, deeper, and wore a sleepy look which
made it seem more in keeping with quiet old
Crofield.

" The hay 's about ready to cut," said Jack,
as he plodded along the path, near the water's
edge, through a thriving meadow of clover
and timothy. "There 's always plenty of work
in haying time. Hullo ! What grasshoppers !
Jingo ! "

As he made the last exclamation, he clapped
his hand upon his trousers-pocket.

" If I did n't forget to go in and get my
sinker ! Never did such a thing before in all my
life. What 's the use of trying to fish without a
sinker ? "

The luck seemed to be going directly against
him. Even the Cocahutchie, at his left, had
dwindled to a mere crack between bushes and
high grass, as if to show that it had no room to
let for fish to live in — that is, for fish accus-
tomed to having plenty of room, such as they

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

254

could find when living in a mill-pond, lined
around the edges with boys and fish-poles.

" That 's a whopper ! " suddenly exclaimed
Jack, with a quick snatch at something that
alighted upon his left arm. " I 've caught him !
Grasshoppers are the best kind of bait, too. I '11
try him on, sinker or no sinker. Hope there are
some fish, down here."

The line he unwound from his rod was some-
what coarse, but it was strong, and so was his
hook, as if the fishing around Crofield called for
stout tackle as well as for a large number of
sportsmen. The big, long-limbed, green-coated
jumper was placed in position on the hook, and
then, with several more grumbling regrets over
the absence of any sinker, Jack searched along
the bank for a place whence he could throw his
bait into the water.

" This '11 do," he said, at last, and the breeze
helped him to swing out his line until the grass-
hopper at the end of it dropped lightly and
naturally into a dark little eddy, almost across
that narrow ribbon of the Cocahutchie.

Splash, — tug, — splash again, —

"Jingo! What's that? I declare — if he is n't
pulling ! He '11 break the line, — no, he won't.
See that pole bend ! Steady, — here he comes.
Hurrah ! "

Out he came, indeed, for the rude, strong
tackle held, even against the game struggling
of that vigorous trout. There he lay now, on
the grass, with Jack Ogden bending over him
in a fever of exultation and amazement.

" I never could have caught him with a worm
and a sinker," he said, aloud. " This is the way
to catch 'em. Is n't he a big fellow ! I '11 try
some more grasshoppers."

There was not likely to be another two-pound
brook-trout very near the hole out of which that
one had been pulled. There would not have
been any at all, perhaps, but for the prevail-
ing superstition that there were no fish there.
Everybody knew that there were bullheads, suck-
ers, perch, and " pumpkin-seeds," in the mill-
pond, and eels, with now and then a pickerel,
but the trout were a profound secret. It was
easy to catch another big grasshopper, but the
young sportsman knew very well that he knew
nothing at all of that kind of fishing. He had
made his first cast perfectly, because it was

[Jan.

about the only way in which it could have been
made, and now he was so very nervous and ex-
cited and cautious that he did very well again,
aided as before by the breeze. Not in the same
place, but at a little distance down, and close to
where Jack captured his second bait, there was
a crook in the Cocahutchie, with a steep, over-
hanging, bushy bank. Into the glassy shadow
under that bank the sinkerless line carried and
dropped its little green prisoner, and there was
a hungry fellow in there, waiting for foolish grass-
hoppers in the meadow to spring too far and
come down upon the water instead of upon the
grass. As the grasshopper alighted on the water,
there was a rush, a plunge, a strong hard pull,
and then Jack Ogden said to himself:

" I 've heard how they do it. They wait and
tire 'em out. I won't be in too much of a hurry.
He '11 get away if I am."

That is probably what the fish would have
done, for he was a fish with what army men
call " tactics." He was able to pull very hard,
and he was also wise enough to rush in under
the bank and to sulkily stay there.

" Feels as if I 'd hooked a snag," said Jack.
" Maybe I 've lost the fish and he 's hitched me
into a ' cod-lamper ' eel of some kind. Steady, —
no, I must n't pull harder than the fish."

He was breathless, but not with any exertion
that he was making. His hat fell off upon the
grass, as he leaned forward through the alder
bushes, and his sandy hair was tangled, for a
moment, in some stubby twigs. He loosened
his head, still holding firmly his bent and strain-
ing rod. One step farther, a slip of his left foot,
an unsuccessful grasp at a bush, and then Jack
went over and down into a pool deeper than he
had thought the Cocahutchie afforded so near
Crofield.

There was a very fine splash, as the grass-
hopper fly-fisherman went under, and there was
a coughing and spluttering a moment afterward,
when his eager, excited, anxious face came up
again. He could swim extremely well, and he
was not thinking of his ducking, — only of his
game.

" I hope I have n't lost him ! " he exclaimed,
as he tried to pull upon the line.

It did not tug at all, just then, for the fish
on the hook had been rudely startled out from

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

'55

under the bank and was on his way up the
Cocahutchie, with the hook in his mouth.

" There he is ! I 've got him yet ! Glad I
can swim — " cried Jack; and it did seem as
if he and this fish were very well matched,
except that Jack had to give one of his hands
to the rod while his captive could use every fin.

Down-stream floated Jack, passing the rod
back through his hands until he could grasp the
line, and all the while the fish was darting madly
about to get away.

" There, I 've touched bottom. Now for
him ! Here he comes. I '11 draw him ashore
easy, — that 's it! Hurrah! — biggest fish ever
was caught in the Cocahutchie ! "

That might or might not be so, but Jack
Ogden had a three-pound trout, flopping angrily
upon the grass at his feet.

" I know how to do it now," he almost shouted.
" I can catch 'em ! I won't let anybody else
know how it 's done, either."

He had learned something, no doubt, but he
had not learned how to make a large fish out
of a small one. All the rest of that afternoon

he caught grasshoppers and cast them daintily
into what seemed to be good places, but he did
not have another occasion to tumble in. When
at last he was tired out and decided to go home,
he had a dozen more of trout, not one of them
weighing over six ounces, with a pair of very
good yellow perch, one very large perch, a
sucker, and three bullheads, that bit when his
bait happened to sink to the bottom without
any lead to help it. Take it all in all, it was a
great string of fish, to be caught in a Saturday
afternoon, when all that the Crofield sportsmen
around the mill-pond could show was six bull-
heads, a dozen small perch, a lot of " pumpkin-
seeds " not much larger than dollars, five small
eels, and a very vicious snapping-turtle.

Jack stood for a moment looking down at
the results of his experiment in fly-fishing. He
felt, really, as if he could not more than half
believe it.

" Fishing does n't pay," he said. " It does n't
pay cash, anyway. There is n't anything around
Crofield that does pay. Well, it must be time
for me to go home."

(To be continued. )

DESIGN FOR DECORATION OF WINDOW — SUGGESTED UNCONSCIOUSLY BY MESSRS. WILLIE, BABY,
FRANCIS, PERCY, AND JACK.

PILOT-BOAT "TORCHING" BY NIGHT.

By J. O. Davidson.

To the mariner inward bound from a long
voyage, few sights are more welcome than the
first view of the pilot-boat. Whether she be
met in fair summer weather, or in a winter's snow-
storm or blizzard ; within sight of land, or far out
on the restless ocean, she is a welcome, a sign of
rest, of good fellowship, and good cheer. To
the passenger in pursuit of business, pleasure,
or health, she is a landmark or mile-post, so to
speak, on his way. To the tired sailor she prom-
ises rest from heavy labors, an easy berth, and
pay-day. To the captain she signifies relief
from anxious duty, for, with the good pilot on
board, he is relieved from further guidance, and
is practically at his voyage's end — moored to his
dock, and shaking hands with the ship's owners
over the safe ending of a happy voyage.

The New York and New Jersey pilots are a
set of hardy and reliable men, inured to hard-
ship and responsibility, for their training is a
long and severe one. Many of them are brought
up on or near the harbors in which they after-
ward ply their trade, and the knowledge acquired
as boys, while cruising in familiar home waters,
stands them in good stead in after years.

The first pilots of New York harbor were
stationed at Sandy Hook, and visited incoming
vessels in whale-boats ; and many a stately Brit-
ish frigate or colonial trader was forced to wait
anxiously outside the bar, rolling and tossing in
the sea-way, or tacking hither and yon, waiting
for a glimpse of that tiny speck where flashing
oars told of the coming pilot. It is in this way
many vessels are still met, off some of our
smaller harbors, and at the Port Eads Jetties
(those wonderful improvements of navigation at
the mouth of the Mississippi River) this practice
also remains. There the waters of the great river
pouring into the Gulf of Mexico make a turbu-
lent swell with foam-crested billows that roll the
stoutest ship's gunwale under, even in calm
weather ; yet the little whale-boats, swift and
buoyant, dash out bravely in a race for the sail

on the distant horizon, for there are two pilot-
stations at the Jetties, and it is " first come first
engaged." There are plenty of tugs and small
steamers there also, but the whale-boat is still
used as easiest to handle and to embark from.

On our own northern coasts, the long icy
storms in winter, demand a stronger craft, and
our pilot-boats are stout, well-built little schoon-
ers of a type and style peculiarly their own, and
adapted to their work. They have a cook, boat-
tender, and boy, to bring them in when the pilots
are all " dropped," and are comfortably furnished
and amply provisioned.

The boats have regular cruising grounds to a
certain extent, but often are blown out to sea
or up or down the coast, as far north as the New-
foundland Banks and south as Cape Hatteras.
They are familiar with all the tracks of incoming
and outward-bound vessels and move about
hither and thither to lie in the way of a vessel ;
here intercepting a steamer, yonder a fruit-ship,
or dashing down the coast to meet some familiar
craft which they know is due and for which the
pay will be large. This pay is regulated by law,
according to tonnage and draught of the vessel,
and is not collected by the pilots, but by their
employees who look after this part of the work.

One boat, known as the " station boat," is
always kept near the harbor entrance, in sight
of outgoing ships, to receive on board the pilots
who have steered them down the channels of
the bay; but sometimes, through darkness or
heavy weather, some vessel fails to drop her
pilot and he is compelled to sail in her to the
nearest port whence he can return. Thus many
a pilot has found himself a prisoner on board
a ship for weeks, or landed at a foreign port,
perchance in Europe or the West Indies, when
he expected to be in his cozy home with his
wife and children and Christmas dinner.

On dark nights the incoming vessel or steamer
may run by the waiting pilot-boat without see-
ing her, and find herself in dangerous waters

PILOT-BOAT "TORCHING BY NIGHT.

257

UL'KNING A

unawares. To prevent this, the pilots burn what
is known as a " flare " or torch, consisting of a
bunch of cotton or lamp-wick dipped in turpen-
tine, on the end of a short handle. It burns
with a brilliant flame, lighting up the sea for
a great distance and throwing the sails and
number of the pilot-boat into strong relief against
the darkness, enabling the distant ship's look-
out to discern her whereabouts and steer accord-
ingly. Many an accident has been avoided in
Vol. XVII.— 30!

this manner also, for our modern steamships
run so swiftly that the boat might be run
down but for some such signal of position.
On a dark clear night, the boats' positions can
be seen not only by the flare on their sails,
but also by the reddish glare which the signal
projects on the under side of such clouds as
may be floating near on the night winds.
These flashes look like distant heat lightning
or gleams from some huge fire -fly.

'There once was a man with a snee3e
\\/ko always would sit" in a breeze
"When bedded to take shelter
Jied cry: I should swelter i
A>y\d straightway go or\ with his sneeze.

A PICNIC ON THE STAIRS.

It was a wet morning at the seaside, and the
children could not have their picnic on the shore
that Mamma had promised them. Baby did
not mind, for he hardly knew what a picnic was ;
but Dora was ready to cry when she saw the
rain falling, and the dull sky, without a bright
spot anywhere.

A little girl named Fanny, who lived in the
next cottage, was to have gone with them.

Dora wondered if Fanny was feeling as badly
as she did, about the rain. Then, suddenly,
she thought of something they could do, if
only Fanny could come over.

She asked her mamma if Nurse could go to
Fanny's house — it was so near and there was
a gate in the fence between — and ask Fanny's
mamma to let her come over and play.

Mamma gave permission, and while Nurse

= 5 s

A PICNIC ON THE STAIRS.

was gone, Dora went upstairs to the play-room,
and looked over her dishes. They were the
remains of two sets, one that she had at Christ-
mas, and the old set that was given her on her
birthday, long before Christmas.

Baby had broken very many of them, and
she herself had had ''bad luck " (as she called it
when she broke things). Those that were left
she found in one of the beach-pails, mixed up
with shells of different shapes and sizes, which
also were used as dishes. Then she took the
covers from the biggest doll's bed, and folded
them like doyleys ; for on a picnic they would
have doyleys instead of the large napkins. It
was lucky the covers were quite clean. Mary
(that was the nurse's name) had washed and
ironed them, only the week before.

By this time Mary had come back, and
Fanny was with her. Dora leaned over the
banister and saw her, laughing and talking,
while Mary unbuttoned her waterproof.

" Is n't it too bad about the rain ? " she
said. But as Fanny looked up her face was
as bright as the clearest sunshine could have
made it.

" Oh, yes ! " said Dora. " But I 've thought
of a splendid play, if Mamma will let us have
some real things to eat. We can have a picnic
on the stairs. You must come up and help get
ready. And, Mary, will you ask Mamma for
some of the animal-crackers, and just a little
bread and butter too, because we want to play
with the animal-crackers. We won't be crumby
a bit, and if we are, we '11 sweep up all the
crumbs ourselves."

Mary went for the things to eat, and the lit-
tle girls filled one of the wooden beach-pails
with the dishes and covered them over with a
napkin, — Fanny did not mind in the least that
the napkins were really covers, — but the other
pail they did not fill, until Mary brought a plate-
ful of crackers and a very little bread and but-
ter, for it was too soon after breakfast, she said,
for them to have much.

The animal-crackers were n't all animals ;
some were birds and fishes, and some were only
hearts and diamonds and stars and shields ; but
they could play these were shells they had found
upon the shore. And besides the crackers and
bread and butter, there was an orange. There

259

was but this one, left from dessert the evening
before ; but Mary said they could divide it
among them with the old fruit-knife which she
kept in the drawer of the table that stood in
the nursery.

While they were looking for the fruit-knife
they found something else, which had been
missing for days (that table-drawer was always
crammed full of things that Mary did not know
what else to do with, when she was " picking
up " the room). They found the lid of the tea-
pot belonging to the best tea-set. Of course,
they would n't have tea, on a picnic, but Dora
pretended that the teapot had milk in it ; and
she tied on the lid and stuffed paper in the
spout.

Baby would have his tin soldiers, though the
little girls explained to him that soldiers did not
go on picnics. But these soldiers went — as
many of them as Baby could cram into the pail
that held the crackers.

The orange would not go in either of the pails,
so Dora carried it in her hand.

Then they asked Mary for their hats. But
Fanny had come without any hat ; and Mary
objected to Dora's taking hers, for it was one of
those white starched hats that have to be washed,
and it had just been done up, with the bows all
spread out like new. She said Dora would
drop it on the stairs and Baby would sit on it
— bless him ! He never minded what he sat
on, nor where he stepped, but just went ahead,
like the great staving boy he was.

But when Baby heard talk of hats he called
for //what, and Mary let him have it ; for Mary
would always give Baby anything he asked for
and never minded how he spoiled his clothes,
because he was her favorite. So he was the
only person at the picnic with a hat on ; but
five minutes after they had reached the shore,
which was the stairs, he wished it off again.
And the little girls laughed at everything he
did because he was so funny, even when he was
quite serious and put out.

Mary said they had better have the picnic
near the bottom of the stairs on account of
Baby, who might step off backwards, when they
were not looking. So the picnic began on the
third step from the bottom. That was the cliffs,
the green cliffs above the shore. The next step

260

A PICNIC ON THE STAIRS.

was the rocks, with " pot-holes " in them filled with
water, where queer living things were imprisoned
at low tide. The last step was the sand ; and the
floor of the hall below was the water.
It was a shiny floor and really
looked very like still water.
Dora sat on the cliffs, ;
and Fanny stayed be-
low on the rocks, hunting

it, and so they had to make believe that his
feet were wet.

Fanny on the rocks spoke loud to Dora on
the cliffs, so she could hear ; but it was a singu-
lar thing about that picnic, that you could
reach a person's hand from the rocks, though

she were sitting on

far

<y~ iSS

you
is a

shells and crabs, and Baby was to have played
on the sand; but he would step off into the
water, which was very improper, for of course
he had his shoes and stockings on and was
not prepared for wading. But he would do

the cliffs, ever

above.
' . It was quite con-
venient though, for
.'" z Fanny could hand
up her cup for
more milk, always
calling in a loud
voice to Dora : " Oh,
Dora, have you any
more milk ? The
wind makes me so
hungry. — Oh, can
you see that tiny
little crab in a pool
in the rock ? Shall
I catch him for
? I 'm sure he
soft shell, so he
won't bite me."
! Of course there
lips' were no crabs
on the stair-
case, any more
than there was
an ocean covering the
hall floor. But Dora and
Fanny were good "make-be-
lievers," and Baby — well, he did
spoil things a little, but that was only
because he did not understand how a
real picnic should be.

And when they had eaten the bread and

butter first, and then the crackers, stars, and

shields, and then the animals — the elephant

and the horse's head and the dove and the

lion, the two dogs and the fishes and the

peacock — and divided the orange (with

great difficulty) into three equal parts, they

made believe the picnic was over. And they

told Mary that they had had a splendid time —

so it did not matter about the rain, and Mamma

promised them that the)' should have the real

picnic on the next bright day.

AN OSTRICH-RANCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

By Anna Eichberg King.

In the zoological gardens of the ancient town
of Banackpore, in East India, are a pair of
ostriches, presented to the East India Company
by the Maharajah of Cawnpore in 1795. An
American traveler saw them in 1875 and said
they were fine birds then. They were, tradition
has it, far from young when presented to the
East India Company, so that at present they
are more than a century old, and from all ac-
counts seem cheerfully prepared for more. So
you see the ostrich is a long-lived bird.

He is not only long-lived, but he is strong,
and subject to comparatively few diseases. His
digestive powers have become proverbial.

An English gentleman in Port Elizabeth,
South Africa, lost a valuable gold watch in an
extraordinary manner. He was looking into
an ostrich pen, watching the great ungainly
creatures, when he had occasion to take out his
watch. An ostrich stalked up with friendly
curiosity (the ostrich is very curious), looked at
it with his great, black eyes, and the next instant
made a dive and swallowed the watch and as
much of the chain as snapped off. The price
of the bird being exactly the same as the watch,
the victim when last heard from had not been
able to decide whether he should buy the old
ostrich or a new watch.

Another ostrich, grazing near a ball-ground,
was seen to swallow a rubber-ball, two baseballs,
and a hard, green apple, and was none the worse
for his luncheon.

When you think of all the hats trimmed with
feathers, of all feather ornaments and trimmings,
and of the humble feather-dusters, and the noble
plumes ladies wear when they are presented at
court; when you consider that a century and a
half ago men still wore plumes on their hats, it
is really a matter of surprise to think where all
these lovely things come from. Till within
eighteen years the ostriches were hunted like
game and killed for the sake of their plumage.

In 1868 an English gentleman started an ostrich-
breeding farm in South Africa for the purpose
of cultivating the birds for their feathers, simply
clipping them twice a year, and leaving them
at peace the rest of the time.

In our great country the territory is so vast
that there appears to be land and climate suited
to all things. Ten years ago an American
gentleman traveling in South Africa became
deeply interested in ostrich-farming, and was
soon convinced that it could be introduced in
the United States as a new, and, after a time,
very profitable industry.

The ostrich, being a tropical bird, needed, of
course, a climate not subject to Eastern ice,
snow, and storms. He therefore decided that
Southern California, some five hundred miles
south of San Francisco, would be a place suit-
able for the experiment.

Africa is the home of the ostrich proper.
There are and were other species in southern
countries, as, for example, the Emu of Australia,
with its three toes and its hairy feathers, the
Cassowary of Africa, the extinct Dodo of Mada-
gascar, and the extinct Moa of New Zealand.
In South America they have the Rhea, and
from its short feathers they make our com-
mon feather-dusters.

The handsomest and most valuable ostriches
are found in Southern Africa. They are driven
down by hundreds from the interior, as cattle
are driven. There are ostriches in Algiers, also.
Those for the California ranch were exported
from South Africa. The price was five hundred
dollars apiece, and, including the heavy export
duty, they cost about a thousand dollars each
by the time they reached their American desti-
nation.

There were twenty-two of them, ten males
and twelve females. They were driven some
six hundred miles to Cape Town, South Africa,
and shipped on board a sailing-vessel bound for

262

AN OSTRICH-RANCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

[Jan.

Buenos Ayres, where they were landed after a
six weeks' voyage. Here, after giving them
time to rest, they were sent by steamer to New
York. Then for a short time they rested again.

A FULL-GROWN OSTRICH.

They were next sent overland to San Francisco,
whence, after a last rest, they were transported
five hundred miles southward to their new home.
The safe transportation of these birds was due
to the great care taken that they should not be
overtired during the journey.

There are certain old traditions about the
ostrich which, I have been told by the owner
of the California ranch, are fallacious. He
says that the ostrich does not bury his head in
the sand and imagine he is unobserved by his
enemies. On the contrary, he is a very pugna-
cious bird and always ready for a fight. Nor
does the female ostrich lay her eggs in the sand
for the sun to hatch them. To do them justice,
they are quite domestic, and deserve a better
reputation. Nor is the ostrich ever used for
riding, as he has an exceptionally weak back ;
any person might break it with a blow from an
ordinary cane.

His strength lies in his great breast, and his

feet. He has one great claw, and a very small
one, and with a terrible precision he can bring
down the large claw with a cruel force that will
tear open anything not made of sheet-iron.

Savage birds at best, they are dangerously so
during breeding time. The twenty-two birds
brought to our California ranch, trusted to their
instinct and laid their eggs during the Califor-
nia winter, which corresponded to their summer
south of the Equator. It being the rainy sea-
son, their nests were filled with water and the
eggs were chilled; so the first season of their
American sojourn was a failure.

The ostrich makes its nest by rolling in the
sand and scooping out a hole some six feet in
diameter, and, excepting an incubator-house,
the California ranch requires no buildings for
the use of the birds, though the land is di-
vided off into pens fenced in, each about an
acre in extent, for the use of the breeding birds,
every pair occupying one such inclosure.

The ostriches live upon alfalfa and corn.
Alfalfa is a grass cultivated all over the ranch ;
it resembles our clover, and grows to a crop
some six times a year.

The ostrich hen lays her eggs ever)' other day,
and she can set on some twenty-two; but some
hens lay as many as eighty, though of these only
a small proportion are found to produce ostriches
after proper hatching.

Eggs which the ostrich can not hatch are
hatched artificially in an incubator, like that
used for chickens, only on a larger scale.

In justice to the male ostrich, it must be said
that he not only sets on the eggs twenty hours
at a time to his mate's four hours, but that
afterward he takes upon himself the education
of his children and kicks the hen (which, to be
sure, is far from commendable) when' she pre-
sumes to interfere.

Among our California birds was one named
" Long Tom." When they picked out a mate
for him he took a great dislike to her, and kicked
her over the fence, whereupon they put her
back. Then Long Tom was so disgusted that
he raised his great claw and brought it down on
her so decidedly that — she died. Since then
Long Tom has lived alone.

While the birds are setting, it is difficult to
examine the eggs to see which ones are fertile. A

AN OSTRICH-RANCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

263

little corn, however, lures the bird from the nest,
and a few of the eggs are then taken into a dark-
ened room with one window. The window is
entirely covered by a heavy blanket in which
is a single small hole admitting a ray of sun-
light. The eggs are held up to the light, one
by one, and it is thus made easy to see through
their coarse pores. If delicate veins run through
an egg, it is fertile, and is replaced in the nest.
If not, it is used for eating.

After forty-two days, either in the nest or
incubator, the little ostriches come into the
world. They are about as large as ordinary
hens, and are covered with small, hedgehog-
like quills, beneath which is a fine, gray fluff.

When they are a fortnight old, they are taken
from their parents and are adopted by some old
bachelor ostrich, who, having no family of his
own, kindly sees to them. During the first
three months all sorts of dangers threaten the

The male ostrich has the most valuable
feathers, and the handsomest and costliest are
on the first wing-joint and are either snow-white,
glossy black, or black and white.

Feathers forty-two inches long have been pro-
duced in this ranch, and we were shown some,
white and beautiful, that must have been fully
a yard in length. The shorter tail-feathers are
buff and black in the male bird, and buff and
gray in the female. These are used for dress
trimmings, and the coarsest are made into
feather-dusters and other such articles.

After four years their feathers grow more and
more beautiful, and in the height of his produc-
tive season the ostrich's lovely plumage is worth
a hundred dollars a year.

In the African farms, the ostrich clipping, be-
ing conducted on a large scale, simplifies itself.
The birds are driven into a long, narrow pen
called a ''kraal" (a Dutch word), and then

A TROOP OF YOUNG OSTRICHES.

m\\

baby ostriches. They have all kinds of infantile they are so driven together, by means of a

illnesses, and it is only after these months that sliding gate rolled against them, that the huge

they can be reckoned upon as possessing any creatures can not move. Otherwise it would be

commercial value. fatal to go among them. Then the men who

In the beginning they are quite tame and clip them force their way through the throng.

harmless, but when, after four years, they come The wings are spread and the ripe feathers

to maturity, they become as savage as are all (those feathers through the ends of which no

old birds. blood-vessels are to be seen) are cut. To cut a

264

AN OSTRICH-RANCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

feather showing veins would be as painful to
the bird as it is for us to have a tooth pulled.
The unripe feathers are left for future clipping.

HEN S EGG AND AN OSTRICH S EGG.

As many as one hundred and fifty birds are
driven into these kraals at a time ; but in the
California ranch, there being at first but few
birds, some other method had to be devised to
catch and clip them, as there were not enough
to be crowded into a pen and so made helpless
and harmless. Ingenuity came to the rescue.

One fine morning a gentleman rode to the
nearest town and bought several dozens of
long stockings, and then, to the great amuse-
ment of the shopman, proceeded to cut off a
bit from each toe. He rode back to the ranch
with his apparently useless purchase.

A bit of corn lured each unsuspecting bird to
the fence, where he was seized, and in a twink-
ling had a long stocking slipped over his head.
Being blinded, he was helpless and easily clipped,
but he could meanwhile breathe sufficiently
through the mysterious hole in the toe of the
stocking. After the clipping the feathers are
gathered and packed and sent to San Francisco,

where they are sold at auction, and generally
go to New York merchants.

In this large California ranch there are at
present some three hundred or more birds.
"Long Tom" is the heaviest, weighing four
hundred and fifty pounds.

Ostriches are famous for their swiftness, some-
times running at the rate of forty miles an hour.
Long Tom once escaped from his pen and ran
at such a rate that it took four cow-boys with
fresh horses, in relays, to tire him out and cap-
ture him.

The first eighteen months of this experiment
were discouraging, as such experiments often
are ; but the next year success began to come,
and now the ranch promises to be profitable.

It is a strange and wonderful thing — man's
power to bring all creatures to bis uses. If he
does not tame so savage and wild a creature as
the ostrich, at least he captures him and makes
him subservient to a new industry.

It is pleasant to think that these beautiful
feathers are not obtained by the death of the
bird whose protection and whose beauty they
were. I like to imagine the great ostriches,
in that distant California ranch, gorgeous in

THE INCUBATOR.

their black and snow-white plumes, contentedly
nibbling their clover in the clear sunshine and
being no worse for losing their fine feathers
twice a year — in fact, being much more fortu-
nate than poor, ordinary mortals who never
in a whole lifetime have a robe so royal.

By Julie M. Lippmann.

We had been busy talking, for hours, Christmas Eve,
Of all the great improvements until — will you believe? —
I felt quite dull and drowsy, and said, 'twixt yawn and sigh,
" Oh ! anything old-fashioned had best pass out and die ! "

And then I leaned back smiling and quite self-satisfied,
And closed my eyelids slowly, when, lo ! they opened wide
In sheer amaze and wonder, and would you know the cause ?
I saw before me standing, the form of Santa Claus.

But, oh ! so strange and altered ! In clothes of latest style,
And not at all the Santa I 'd dreamed of all the while.
But still I recognized him, and said : ''I did n't see
You come out from the chimney, — 't was very dull of me."

" The chimney ?" said he gruffly, " I beg of you to know
I clamber down no chimneys ; I stopped that long ago ! "
I said, " Your load was heavy, you 're tired ; won't you rest ? "

" Oh, no," he answered grandly, " my goods were all expressed ! "

Vol. XVII.— -,r.

265

266

A NEW-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS.

You must have found it pleasant — the sleighing, sir, I mean.
The roofs are much more snowy than I have ever seen."
Indeed ! " — his air was lofty — " 'tis not the present mode
To drive a sleigh. I travel by the elevated road."

'T was all so strange it chilled me, but still I said, "Now, please,
You won't forget to send us one of your Christmas trees.
The children love you dearly and try to be so good."
He said : " No trees hereafter, I 'd have it understood

In fact, the time is over for Christmas. I should say
Those very old-time customs have really passe

away.
We want the very latest, dear madam, you

and I,
And peace, good-will, and Christmas are

of a time gone by."

And then he seemed preparing to take

his leave and go.
But do you think I let him ? I called

out bravely, "No ! "
1 ran to him and begged him, between

my sobs and tears,
To leave us blessed Christmas, just as in

former years.

To change no little custom ; to take no

part away ;
To leave us dear old-fashioned, beloved

Christmas Day.
And then, for just an instant, my

eyes were very dim
With tears, and when I cleared

them, I saw a change in

him :

His face, 't was round and jolly, his clothes,
were as of old,
He had a pack upon his back as full as it could
hold.
And as he beamed upon me I heard his reindeer prance.
Then sly old Santa gave me a smile and roguish glance.

'I u-ish you Merry Christmas ! " I thought I heard him say.
And when I tried to answer him, he 'd vanished quite away !
But though they say I dreamed it, I know we shall have still
Our dear old-fashioned Christmas, bringing " Peace on earth, good-will !

THE LITTLE BUTTONWOOD MAN.

By Helen P. Strong.

Little Pierre wondered, when he began to
study geography, how any one could ever have
thought the earth was flat. It seemed round
enough to him, for he lived on the side of a
high hill ; and in front of the house the ground
sloped down, down, over bare fields covered
with stones, until the slope was lost among the
tops of the tall trees which grew under the brow
of the hill. Over the trees, Pierre could see
nothing but sky ; and back of the house the hill
rose up, up, to where the trees formed against
the sky a broken outline, in which Pierre found
shapes which looked like men, horses, elephants,
or great giants in deadly conflict with one
another.

In the ranks of these shapes, one buttonwood
tree rose higher than all the rest ; and upon the
very top of that tree Pierre discovered a little
man standing, with a walking-stick in one hand,
and holding his other arm akimbo.

So he stood always, never changing his posi-
tion in the hot summer days, and never coming
down from his place when it was dark or stormy.
Pierre thought the little man must see all over
the world from his high pinnacle ; and there
was one thing which made Pierre think he did
not approve of all he saw in the world below ;
and that was a habit he had of shaking his head
from side to side, as if he were emphasizing a
very disapproving " No." Generally, he shook
it slowly, but at times when the wind blew and
it seemed hard for him to keep his feet in that
exposed place, he shook it vigorously — some-
times bowing his whole body, and swaying from
side to side in the most excited way. But Pierre
had learned another side to the queer little man's
character : that his moods, like those of many
other people, changed with the direction of the
wind. In beautiful weather, when the wind came
from the west, he would toss back his head, and
laugh as if he would split his sides. Indeed, one
day Pierre was sure he had met with this very

accident ; for he was so excited, and swayed
back and forth so violently that his whole body
seemed to split in two, just as if his face came
away from the back of his head, and left the
three-cornered hat standing on the top of his
spinal-column. But, as he seemed to grow to-
gether again, and suddenly began to frown and
shake his head in the old forbidding way, Pierre
thought that perhaps he wore different masks
and that he had been discovered in the act of
changing them.

During the summer there was not a day
that Pierre did not stand at the window, study-
ing the little man's moods and pranks.

One day, Pierre's Uncle George came from
Philadelphia, where he lived.

Pierre had gone to the door twenty times to
see whether his uncle were coming ; and at last,
just when it was growing dark and his grand-
mother had lighted the lamp so that she could
peer into the dark oven at the biscuits she was
baking in honor of her son's visit, Pierre discov-
ered the horse's ears just rising above the stones
in the rough road up the hill. But instead of
running out to meet his uncle, he slipped away
by himself into the back parlor.

" Where has that child gone ? " thought his
grandmother ; but he was back in a moment,
and by the time she had welcomed her tall son
(the only one living since the death of Pierre's
father), and had turned to put the last touches
to the supper-table, Pierre had his uncle by the
hand, and fairly dragged him along to the big
arm-chair by the back-parlor window, and,
having climbed into his lap, was whispering in
his ear the long-kept secret. All day he had
feared that when his uncle came, it might be
too dark to distinguish the little man on the
top of the buttonwood tree ; and it was for this
reason that he Had gone for a final look at
the last moment, while his uncle was getting
out of the wagon. He then had found, to his

268

THE LITTLE BUTTONWOOD MAN.

[Jan.

delight, that although the sun had set, the
moon was just rising over the mountain, and
the faithful old fellow stood out clear in the
moonlight.

Pierre had never dared say anything to his
grandmother about the little man, for he knew

she would say, " Why,
child, 't is only a tree ! " She
would have said it kindly '^ iyj

enough, but Pierre knew it was
a tree ; he wanted some one who
would help him make-believe that it was a
" really " man, some one who would tell him all
about where the little man came from, and what
he was there for. Pierre once had gone so far as to
ask Joe (the boy who milked the cows and fed
the pigs) what he thought about it; but Joe
had said only, " Humph ! /can't see no man."
He had wished to ask Bill Drake, the big wood-
chopper who sat in the kitchen evenings, and
told yarns about snakes and bears ; but though
Bill liked to tell his own stories, he always told

Pierre, when asked the reason for anything,
that it was, " To make little boys ask questions."
Pierre used to wish, if so many things had been
put in the world for this purpose, that a few
more people could have been put in to answer
little boys' questions, after they were asked.

But now had come the only person in the
world who always answered his questions ; and
he felt so glad he could almost have cried
about it, as he poured into his uncle's ear the
history of the little Buttonwood man, and then
snuggling close in his arms in the moonlight,
said, " Now, please te' me
mm .,.,.,,„, 'bout him ! "

" Why, he is one of Santa
Claus's sentinels, to be
■ >.' W; .. - sure," began Uncle George.

' "V/- - -.--■-■ " Santy c/aws, — Santy

nails ? What is that ? "
ilspS'i . asked Pierre, immediately
connecting Santa Claus with
the old claw-hammer in Joe's
nail-box.
" Sentinels, — watchmen,"
said his uncle. " Don't you
see, Santa Claus is too busy to
keep account of all the bad ■ boys
and all the good boys. So he sets
these little men on the tops of the
highest trees to keep watch and let
him know when the boys are naughty."
" Is that the reason he shakes his
head so much ? " inquired Pierre, very
low ; for he remembered that one
day, when he answered his grand-
mother disrespectfully, the little
man had looked so solemn, and
shaken his head so sadly,
that Pierre had felt sure
he knew all about it.
" To be sure,"
said Uncle George.
" I suppose he sees some boy doing something
he ought not to do, almost all the time ; and per-
haps he is saying, 'Don't, don't,' when you see
him shaking his head back and forth in that way."
Just then they were called to supper, and dur-
ing the meal Pierre looked so thoughtful and
behaved so well that his grandmother wished
that Uncle George would come oftener if it

>■]

THE LITTLE BUTTONWOOD MAN.

269

always would have so good an effect on the
child.

Uncle George left the next day, but Pierre's
good behavior did not leave at the same time.
His grandmother thought she had never known
Pierre so ready to pick up her spool of thread,

loss. The only thing for him to do, was to send a
letter to his uncle. He was sure, if Uncle George
knew about it, it would be made right.

So he went away by himself and spent half a
day printing his letter, though there were only
these four crooked lines when it was done :

or to bring things from the pantry when she was
baking; but she did not know how many of the
mischievous plans which were always popping
into his busy brain were never carried out be-
cause of that " Don't ! Don't do it ! " which was
privately telegraphed to him from the little man
on the top of the tree.

By and by, when Pierre was beginning to long
for a smile of approval from his monitor, one
moming — what do you think ? — he appeared in
an entirely new suit of clothes ! His cap looked
like a crown of gold ; his robe was spangled
with bits of emerald ; he wore a sash of rich crim-
son at his side ; and, for days after that, he never
shook his head at all, but stood nodding peace-
fully in a very satisfied way.

But one night there was a dreadful storm.
It rained and rained, and the wind blew and
whistled down the chimney; and in the morn-
ing, when Pierre looked out to see how the brave
little watchman had stood it — lo, he was gone !
Poor Pierre ! He was sure, that if the mountain
could only be searched, the little man might be
found. But he did not wish to be laughed at,
and he knew that all the grown folks about the
place would laugh at him if he told them of his

Perhaps I would better translate it :

Uncle George: He blew off. What will Santa Clans
do about the boys? P. S. — When he said "Don't," I

did n't.

Pierre got Joe to address the envelope and
take it down to the post-office when he went for
the mail. It seemed a long while before the
answer came ; and when it did come, it was the
very night before Christmas. It was printed in
large plain letters, so Pierre could read it for
himself, and this was what it said :

Don't worry. I ought to have told you, these little
men on the tree-tops are all invited to give in their re-
ports at a big Thanksgiving dinner at Mrs. Santa Claus's
house, so that there will be plenty of time for Santa Claus
to get ready for Christmas.

The next morning Pierre was downstairs as
soon as it was light, and the first thing he saw
was a beautiful new sled, with a card tied to it.
On the card was printed :

" For the little boy who did n't when the But-
tonwood man said ' Don't.' "

Pierre wished he could see the Buttonwood
man once more to thank him ; he went to the
window, and there, on the top of the hill, in the

270

THE LITTLE BUTTONWOOD MAN.

same old place, stood die little sentinel, — only Joe came running in for the snow-shovel, and

now he was bundled up warmly in the whitest Bill Drake said, " Look at the snow on the tops

of cloaks — just such as they wear in Santa of the trees." But Pierre said softly to himself,

Claus's own palace. " It is n't snow, — and it is n't a tree ! "

CHARLES.

By Laura G. Richards.

Who is this boy ?

This is Charles.

What is Charles doing ?

He is looking out of the pantry.

Why does he look out ?

Because he wishes to see if the coast is clear,
so that he can run to his own room without
being seen by any one.

Why does he not wish to be seen ?

Because he has been naughty.

What has he done ?

He was sent to the pantry half an hour ago
by his Aunt Matilda, to bring her a piece of
citron for the cake. He could not find the
citron, but he found a jar full of cinnamon-
sticks, and a dish of plum-jam, and he has been
enjoying himself very much, indeed. He left
the door only a crack open, for fear some one
should come, so the pantry was quite dark ; and
in stepping down from the shelf he knocked
down three lamp-chimneys and a molasses-jug,
and then stepped right into the keg of pickled
cucumbers and sat down in it. He upset the keg
in getting out, and the floor is all covered with
cucumbers and vinegar and molasses and bro-
ken glass, so that it is not pleasant to walk on.

What will Charles do now ?

If he can get to his room without being seen,
he will either have a bad headache and go to
bed, or will run away to sea ; he is not quite
sure which.

Why does he look as if he heard a noise at
this moment ?

Because he does hear one.

What noise is it ?

It is the sound of his Aunt Matilda's footstep.

If his Aunt Matilda catches him, what will
she do ?

She will spank him.

Is that the best thing that could happen to
him ?

It is.

What is the moral of this picture ?

It has two morals. The first is, that it is not
wise to send little boys to the pantry. The
second is, that a little cinnamon in a pudding,
with safety, is better than a whole stick followed
by disaster and spanks.

THE BROWNIES IN THE STUDIO.

By Palmer Cox.

The Brownies once approached in glee

A slumbering city by the sea.

When one remarked, " On every side

Now round us stretches in her pride

The greatest city, far or near,

Upon the Western Hemisphere."

' And in this town," a second
cried,

■ I hear the artist does reside

Who pictures out, with patient hand,
The doings of the Brownie band.
Who draws our portraits, sings our praise,
And tells the world our cunning ways."

2"j:

THE BROWNIES IN THE STUDIO.

[Jan.

I 'd freely give," another said,
The cap that now protects my head,
To find the room, where, day by day,
He shows us at our work or play."
A fourth replied : " Your cap retain
To shield your poll from snow or rain.
His studio is farther down,
Within a corner-building brown,

Then through the park, around the square,
And down the broadest thoroughfare,
The anxious Brownies quickly passed,
And reached the building brown at last.
They paused awhile to view the sight,
To speak about its age and height,
And read the signs, so long and wide,
Which swung around on every side.

Which overlooks the human tide

That crowds along the street so wide.

1 know the city through and through,

As well as if the plan I drew ;

So follow me a mile or more,

And soon we '11 reach the office door."

But little time was wasted there,

For soon their feet had found the stair.

And next the room, where oft are told

Their funny actions free and bold,

Was honored by a friendly call

From all the Brownies, great and small.

1890.]

THE BROWNIES IN THE STUDIO.

273

Then what a gallery they found,

As here and there they moved around —

A portrait now they criticize,

Which every one could recognize :

The features, garments, and the style,

Soon brought to every face a smile.

And next they
gaze upon a
scene
That showed
them sport-
ing on the
green,
Or hastening
o'er the fields
with speed
To help some farmer in his need.
Said one, " Upon this desk, no doubt,
Where now we cluster round about,
Our doings have been plainly told
From month to month, through heat and cold.
And there 's the ink, I apprehend,
On which our very lives depend.
Be careful, moving to and fro,
Lest we upset it as we go.
For who can tell what tales untold
That darksome liquid may unfold !

And here 's the
pen, as I
opine,
That 's written
every verse
and line ;

Indebted

to this

pen are

we
For all our

fame and

history."

; See here,"

another cried, " I Ve found
The pointed pencil, long and round,
That pictures all our looks so wise,
Our smiles so broad and staring eyes ;

'T is well it draws us all aright,
Or we might bear it off to-night.
But glad are we to have our name
In every region known to fame,
To know that children lisp our praise,
And on our faces love to gaze."

Lay figures, draped in ancient styles,
From some drew graceful bows and smiles,
Until the laugh of comrades nigh
Led them to look with sharper eye.
Some tried their hand at painting there,

And showed their
skill was some-
thing rare ;
While others talked
and rummaged
through
The desk to find the

stories new,
That told about

some late affair,
Of which the world
was not aware.
But pleasure seemed to have the power
To clip at will the passing hour,
And bring too soon the morning chime,
However well they note the time.
Now, from a

chapel's bra- ,1 "^jy
zen bell, :|"w^r-

The startling
hint of morn-
ing fell,
And Brownies
realized the
need
Of leaving for
their haunts
with speed.
So down the
staircase to
the street
They made their
way with nim-
ble feet,
And ere the sun could show his face,
The band had reached a hiding-place.

Vol. XVII.-

-32-

274

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

[Jan.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

A Happy New Year to you, one and all, my
friends ! And, now I think upon it, I wished this
same wish about seventeen years ago, and some of
you have heard it from this pulpit many a time in
the years between. Certainly these good wishes
ought to take effect by this date, and you all should
have the very happiest year that good Father Time
ever shaped with his gleaming scythe.

The gift of a fresh New Year, the Deacon says,
is one that should fill any human heart with hope,
courage, and gratitude. That's all I ask. If you
are hopeful, brave, and full of gratitude, you '11
stand a fair chance of being as good and happy as
your Jack can wish.

Meanwhile, the wind is telling its story of the
coming of the new year and the going away of
the old. This is the way one of your St. NICHOLAS
poets, Ida Whipple Benham, hears it :

One moment, eye to eye,
Under the midnight sky,

The Old Year and the New ;
And one was fair to see
- In his undimmed panoply,

And one a veteran true.

And this was the greeting sent
As they hasted, well content
Each on his untried quest :
Cried the Old Year to the New,

" I pity you ! "
Straight back the answer flew,
" I pity you ! "
As they rode, one east, one west.

It is very strange that human folk, including the
poets, always should speak of the going year as a
veteran, an old, old gray-beard, bewildered and
desolate, tottering away to die. Now, I don't be-

lieve a word of it. The old year, as they already
call 1889, can not have lived over twelve months,
say what they will; and, according to my thinking,
he is remarkably bright, and strong of his age.
So far from being old and decrepit, he is very fresh
and vigorous, and, as he steps briskly into line with
the brothers who have preceded him, he stands nod-
ding wisely at the very important baby, 1890, curi-
ous to know how the little chap is going to comport
himself.

Ah, how ? This will depend very much upon your-
selves, my chicks, and your fathers and mothers,
your friends, your teachers, your presidents, kings,
and emperors, and all the other members of this
congregation.

STONES FOR FUEL.

Not real stones, of course, but peach stones.
Yes, my birds tell me that somewhere in California
peach stones are sold and used for fuel. They bring
five or six dollars a ton, and in burning give out as
much heat as the same weight of hard coal would.

Your Jack has not heard how the peach stones
are obtained — whether from the unsold fruit or
refuse of peach orchards, or from the fruit canning
factories, or by gathering up the stones that the
peach-eating California young folk forget to swal-
low in their haste to get back to their studies —
at all events, peach stones make excellent fuel.

A CITY WANTED?

What city is on the line of the equator? Your
Jack is told that the sun sets and rises there at six
o'clock, apparent time, all the year round. Geogra-
phy class, please take notice.

THOSE BIG PUMPKINS.

You will remember, my hearers, being shown
from this pulpit, in November last, a photograph
of some very large pumpkins which I had been in-
formed were from Nebraska. Well, to my regret,
it appears that this was a mistake ; they were not
Nebraska pumpkins at all. They were raised in
San Jose, California, as more than one correspond-
ent has since informed me. And the following
are the garnered facts :

The picture was " taken from life " by Miss Pol-
hemus, an amateur photographer. The heaviest
pumpkin, or "squash," in the left-hand corner,
weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds; thir-
teen of the specimens weighed a ton. The young
man in the corner is Mr. G. Wakefield, who raised
the pumpkins. He is a six-footer, and this fact
should be taken into account in estimating the size
of the fruit — and beyond and above all, as I have
already rectified and testified unto you, Nebraska
never knew, saw, nor heard of these pumpkins
before they had been raised in San Jose, California.

This is to show that your Jack knows enough
to make a mistake, and is honorable enough to
acknowledge it and correct the same — under
pressure.

1890.]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

275

A MISSISSIPPI DOLL.

YOUR Jack has received a funny Christmas
present. It is a doll. And a doll made of grass !
It is dressed in a coarse white lace slip, fastened at
the waist by a girdle of red string — the funniest
plaything that Jack-in-the-Pulpit ever had.

Here is the letter that came with it, and I am
sure it will interest my girls very much.

Topeka, Kans.

Dear Jack : . . . Since your " chicks " have lately
been interested in the subject of doll-foreigners, I thought
perhaps you would like to show them this primitive
little stranger. The doll I send is just as a little colored
girl in Mississippi made it for us, and it is the only kind
little slave children before the " wah " had to play with.
It is made by pulling up a bunch of grass, roots and all,
tying the grass together at the neck line, braiding the
roots for hair — and dressing it in any style suited to the
fancy or resources of the small owner. When these dol-
lies are fresh and green you can imagine they are really
quite handsome, and no doubt they were quite as warmly
loved as their more awe-inspiring wax and bisque cous-
ins would have been.

From a regular attendant upon your sermons,

B. E. L.

THE HILDESHEIM ROSEBUSH.

Newark, N. J., Oct. 31, '89.
Dear Jack: A big boy asks "if any of your chicks
have ever seen the huge rose-bush in Hildesheim." I
have not only seen it but have a sprig from it given me
by the kiister of the cathedral. The bush is thirty-five
feet high and thirty feet wide, and when in bloom is
covered with single white roses. In Hildesheim it is
said to be over one thousand years old. The great fire
that burned part of the doni (or cathedral) nearly de-
stroyed the rose-bush. It has now a large iron railing
around it to protect it.

From your interested reader, Beatrice.

HE CAUGHT A TARTAR.

Dear Jack : Here is afunny story that I have just read
in an encyclopedia, and I hope you '11 show it to the other
fellows, because it explains an expression quite often used
in juvenile society.

Once, in a battle between the Russians and the Tartars,
who are a wild sort of people in the north of Asia, a
private soldier called out : " Captain, halloo there ! I've
caught a Tartar ! " " Fetch him along, then ! " said the
captain. " Aye, but he won't let me," said the man ; and
the fact was, the Tartar had caught him! So when a
man thinks to take another in, and gets bit himself, they
say : " He 's caught a Tartar."

Yours truly, C. A. Jr.

LOOKING BACK.

By Deacon Green.

If I were little again, — ah, me ! —

How very, very good I 'd be.

I would not sulk, I would not cry,

I 'd scorn to coax for cake or pie.

I would not cause Mamma distress,

I 'd never hate to wash and dress.

I 'd rather learn a task than play,

And ne'er from school I 'd run away.

I 'd any time my jack-knife lend,

And share my toys with every friend.

I 'd gladly go to bed at six,

And never be "as cross as sticks."

I 'd run with joy tp take a pill,

And mustard wear whenever ill.

I 'd never wish to skate or swim,

But wisely think of dangers grim.

And, oh, I 'd never, just for fun,

Beg to go hunting with a gun !

At every naughty thing I did —

For mischief might be somewhere hid —

I 'd drop at once upon my knees,

And say, " Dear Teacher, flog me, please."

It 's easy to be good, you see,
When looking back from sixty-three.

Excited Brownie: "See here, old Chappie — they 've up and put something more about us in
St. Nicholas, right around the corner — a page or two back!"

THE LETTER-BOX.

Palermo, Cal.
Dear St. Nicholas: I have never seen a letter from
this town as it is only about a year old. It is situated
right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in
the Valley of the Feather. My brother and myself live
in a little cabin about a mile from town. If you go along
any little creek you will see that the ground has all been
picked up by men who came for gold in 1849. About
five miles from here some men have commenced a mine
in the bed of the Feather River where they expect to get
gold. Your subscriber,

Selden S. H .

Chicago, III.

Dear St. Nicholas : Last winter we were away
from home for seven months, and during part of the time
we visited in Alaska the Muir Glacier, one of the largest
as well as one of the most beautiful of that northern
region.

On the morning of June 12 we found ourselves in
Glacier Bay, with icebergs large and small floating on all
sides of us, making the passage very dangerous.

When we caught our first glimpse of the glacier it
looked like a cloud or gray mist tolling down the wide
valley. About ten o'clock we dropped anchor in front
of the great glacier and for the first time heard the thun-
der of the falling ice. The glacier's front is from three
hundred to four hundred feet high. As our eyes glanced
along the front of it we caught the many tints of the ice.
On the left it was a deep indigo, slowly fading out to a
turquoise and then to a snowy white. Its front was
broken into huge pinnacles towering over the water.
We were landed in life-boats on the rocky moraine, and
then scrambled for a mile over huge boulders, rounded
pebbles, granite soil, and glacier mud. When we reached
the pure snow-colored ice of the glacier its surface
was seamed with deep chasms through which melted ice
flowed, but it was so far down we could not see it.

At last we had gained the top and could see over the
vast glacier, and saw its tributaries far back in the snow-
clad mountains, the great myriads of icebergs in the bay,
and the exquisite coloring of it all. The mountains all
around the glacier are worn down almost round, and only
the rocks are to be seen, for the soil is all ground off by
the slow process of glacial action. After we came back
from our tramp in those two short hours it almost seemed
as though we could see a change in the glacier. Great
chunks of ice had fallen off and revealed new crevices
and more dainty colors. The softest, palest blue changed
suddenly to a deep sapphire or a crystal white, as a loud
report announced the falling of another iceberg.

About five o'clock in the afternoon we steamed away
and took our last look at this beautiful and maiestic work
of nature. As we threaded our way among the floating
icebergs it seemed as though their numbers had greatly
increased, and after supper we saw a sight never to be
forgotten.

To the starboard side was a lovely bay covered with
floating ice, and into this poured the great Pacific gla-
cier. Beyond were large mountains towering to the
height of thousands of feet, their slopes covered with
snow. Above them rose Mt. Fairweather and Mt.

Crillon, fifteen thousand feet high, just showing in the
fleecy clouds. The mountains were piled unevenly to-
gether, their snowy crests shimmering like frosted silver
in the soft sunbeams that danced merrily on them. A
little farther on we met a canoe with two Indians in it.
They were dressed in white, with a white screen before
them, and their paddles scarcely rippled the icy water as
they flew on. They looked very queer with their black
fnces peeping out from their whitedresses. Wefoundour-
selves believing it was some enchanted scene, for the
silvered mountains behind, the strange canoe with its two
occupants, the mountains before us tinged with a weird
golden light, the huge icebergs, and the unbroken still-
ness gave one the impression of living in a magic dream.
The Indians, it seems, were hunting seal and were dressed
to look as much like icebergs as possible.

Your loving friend, Julia T. M .

The Eagle's Nest, Old Mission, Mich.

My Dear St. Nicholas : We have a little pug-dog,
and when he gets on his collar he is very pretty indeed.
When we came up from Chicago on the steamer " Petos-
key " he was very lonely, and the porter fed him and was
kind to him, and when he saw him the next time the
boat came in, he jumped all over him and licked his hands
so joyfully that it was all we could do to get him away
from the porter when the boat started. He likes to play
ball, and when we play tennis he thinks it is his business
to get the balls and bring them to us. When we lose a
ball, we say, " Find it; find it, Trix."

I am eleven years old ; I like you very much indeed ;
especially I like the "Bunny Stories," — they are very
interesting indeed.

The reason our cottage was named " The Eagle's
Nest " was because there was once an eagle's nest in one
of our trees, and we used to sit and look at it. Some-
times we would see the mother eagle on the nest.

Your interested reader, Hortense L .

" East Lynne," Ocean Beach, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you for nearly six
years, and have written twice before, but my letters were
not printed. I hope you will print this.

We are down here for the summer, my mother and my
little sister Ethel, and are staying at a very pretty house
called " East Lynne " ; it has a high tower which, at
night, is lighted up, and the sailors can see the light on
stormy nights, and know where they are, for our light is
the only one between Barnegat and Sandy Hook. In the
winter we go to a boarding-school in West Philadelphia.

My mamma's aunt knew Mrs. Dodge very well, and
I think her stories are splendid. I was very much inter-
ested in the account of " Laura Bridgman " ; I have read
Dickens's account of her in his "American Notes."

I am fourteen next month, and my favorite novelist
is Dickens; my favorite poet, Longfellow.

We go in bathing here nearly every day ; it is great
fun. I can swim a little; my little sister is just learning.

276

THE LETTER-BOX.

277

Please, St. Nicholas, will you tell me how to make a
"salt tumbler"? I remain one of your many devoted
admirers, MAY I. J .

Directions for making a salt tumbler may be found on
page 739, of St. Nicholas for 1S84.

Springfield, III.

Dear St. Nicholas : My sister and I have taken
you for five years and have always looked forward to
your coming.

Papa, Mamma, my sister, and I visited a fort this sum-
mer. It seemed so funny to ride in an ambulance drawn
by four mules.

One day we went out to target practice ; when the
men would shoot, it sounded like a bunch of fire-crackers
going off. After the men were through, we rode down
and found many bullets.

The ground where the bullets hit looked as if some
one had plowed it.

Your constant reader, S. D. M .

FUSAN, COREA.

Dear St. Nicholas : I have often thought you would
like a letter from this part of the world, as I suppose it
is the first

I am an English girl, twelve years old, and the only
foreign child in Fusan.

This is a Japanese settlement, founded some three
hundred years ago ; the Corean people live some dis-
tance away.

I have many pets, — a little Corean pony which I brought
from Seoul (the capital), and called " Prince " ; he is a
beauty, and very intelligent and amiable. I have also
a canary and a cat, both of which came from Hankow,
in China, with me ; several pigeons, and a dog.

Our house is by the sea, and we — that is, Mamma,
Papa, and I — have greatly enjoyed sea-bathing during
the summer heat.

I study at home, not very regularly, as so many things
interfere ; but expect to go shortly to school in Chefoo,
China, four days' journey by steamer from here.

I greatly enjoy reading you, and am always very
anxious that the steamer should not miss the mail in
Japan.

I very much hope to see my letter in print, as it is
the first I have written to any paper.

If you care to know anything about Corea and the
Coreans, I will gladly write to you about Seoul.

Your constant and appreciative reader,

Beryl II .

Little Boar's Head.

Dear St. Nicholas : Don't you think this place has
a queer name? When we applied for a post-office, the
Post-office Department said the name was too long ; but,
as we told them of some other places with names just as
long, they let us keep the name.

There is a little Indian pony here whose name is
"Flaxie," and upon him I have had a good many long
rides. Unhappily pony has a stubborn will of his own.
The other day I was in a hurry, and was galloping fast,
when we came to a sharp turn that led back to his stable,
so, though I wanted to go straight ahead and tried to
pull him round, he took the bit in his teeth and went
round the corner, when the girths broke and I found
myself on the ground ! I was not hurt, however, though
I lost my ride.

I wonder how many of your readers know that " Old
Ironsides " is still in existence, and is at Portsmouth as
a training-ship ? I rowed under her bows the other day.
They have, however, built her upper deck out over the
sides, and then roofed it in to use as a ball-room, which
gives it a topheavy and uncomfortable look.

I have taken you ever since 1879, so I hope that you
will print this.

Your constant reader, Donald McI .

New Rochelle.

Dear St. Nicholas: Your stories I like very much.
I think the " Bunnies " are great fun, and the" Brownies"
too. I am going to tell you how glad I was when my
mamma brought the first St. Nicholas. I am always
reading them, and so glad when my mamma brings a
new one home to me. I am an English boy, but very
glad that I am over here. I never had such fun over
there, as all the boys have here. I live in New Rochelle
and like it very much.

Good-bye now.

Yours truly, Wallace S .

P. S. — Thank you so much for making dear old St.
Nicholas larger. You could not make it too big; not
too thick, I mean. I liked "A Story of a Horse " in the
November number so much. — W. S.

West New Brighton, S. I.

Dear St. Nicholas : Will it be wrong to point out
two or three little mistakes in that very charming his-
torical tale, in your November number, "The Prince and
the Brewer's Son"? Errors in historical matters, or
even in the embroidery work which surrounds the his-
tory of all great men, cling like burrs to a child's mind.

For instance, Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1603,
and James I did not leave Edinburgh until April 5th ;
and he took a month to reach London. For this, and
other reasons, it is not probable that he made another
journey that year. Then, too, Oliver Cromwell was
born April 25, 1599, and Charles I. was born November
9, 1600 ; therefore, in 1603 it would have been Oliver
who was four years old, for Charles was not quite three.
If, however, the date of the story were 1604, we could
reconcile that year with the ages of the children, for in
the legend Oliver is always represented to have been five
years old in his first encounter with his future king.

Again, in 1603-4, Charles was not his father's heir ; but
Prince Henry, his older brother, was the heir to the
throne.

It was for this prince that, in 1599, before Queen
Elizabeth's death, James, who was then King of Scot-
land, wrote the " Basilicon Doron," the Royal Gift, and
it was for him, too, that Sir Walter Raleigh, while a pris-
oner in the tower, began to write the " History of the
World." Prince Henry was a great friend of Sir Walter,
and said that no one but his father would keep such a
bird in such a cage.

This was not a very filial speech, and I doubt if at this
time there was much love lost between the father and son.
Some people believe that James was jealous of his son,
Prince Henry, and say that the prince died under sus-
picious circumstances.

However, the usual story of his death is, that Prince
Henry left Richmond, where he had been ill for some
time, and came to Whitehall to help on the preparations
for his sister's wedding. This sister was the Princess
Elizabeth who, the next year, 1613, on St. Valentine's
Day, married the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, Frederick
V., who was afterward King of Bohemia, and it is this
same princess, Elizabeth, whose descendants have reigned
over England since 1714, for she was the grandmother of
George I.

278

THE LETTER-BOX.

But long before the wedding Prince Henry, one cold,
raw day, went out to play a game of tennis, and, throw-
ing off his coat in the heat of the game, he had a severe
chill and died, within two weeks, of what was called
" putrid fever." His death occurred in the latter part of
161 2, when he was in his nineteenth year, while Charles
was at this time only twelve. Charles, of course, then
became the heir, but he was not made Prince of Wales
until 1616. And, by the way, Charles I. was executed
January 30, 1649, not 1648.

Is it likely that Cromwell would ever have been heard
of in history if Prince Henry had lived ?

Yours truly, G. O. H .

Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor.

Dear St. Nicholas : I often read in your invaluable
magazine of families where the "grown-up children"
express themselves as delighted to " still keep on reading
St. Nicholas," although "so old." I wonder what they
would say to me, a young mother, with a son a year and
a half old, who reads every number she can get ?

With heartiest good wishes for the long life and pros-
perity of the good Saint (I mean to bring my boy up on
him, I assure you), I remain,

Very truly yours, May H. R .

Boston, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas : I am just twelve years old.
I live in Boston. In summer we all stay at our cottage
by the sea.

I thought I would write you a letter about our
"Tommy." I suppose almost every little girl has a
cat; but we think our Tommy a very wonderful one.
He is at least fourteen years old, Papa says. He is of a
bright black color, and has a white tip on the end of his
tail. He is good-natured, and very affectionate. He
always eats his dinner with the family, and has a stool
and plate all to himself. He is very neat and does not
soil the table-cloth. He knows us all when we come
into the room, and gives us a kiss with his black nose.
One evening the maid was going to bed, and she went to
the cellar to let Tom up ; she called "Tommy, Tommy,"
but no Tommy came. The next morning he did not
come home, nor did he all day long. At night she was
waiting on the table, and suddenly the family heard a cat
mew. She went to the door to let him in. He ran
to the dining-room and got up on his stool. He was
very weak, and his feet (which really were white) were
black as coal. We thought he had been taken away and
shut in a coal-bin. When he hears the dinner-bell, he
runs, and is the first one at the table. I have a dress he
likes very much. When we go to the sitting-room after
dinner, if I have on the dress he likes, he lies in my lap
and takes a nap while I read. Tommy is getting so old
now that sometimes we have to carry him upstairs ; but
he loves us all very much, and we are very fond of him.
He knows us all when we come in, by our voices.
Mamma has painted a portrait of him for Grandpapa.

Edith B .

The Manse, Scone, Perth, Scotland.

Dear St. Nicholas : It is now nearly five years
since I began to read your delightful pages. A kind
American friend who was once here has sent you to me
all this time ; and I think some of your readers would
like to hear something about the place I live in, as I have
never seen- a letter from this part of Scotland. This is
one of the oldest parts of the world. There is not very
far from our house a grand old palace, near which stood
the stone upon which all the kings and queens of Scot-
land have been crowned. But in the thirteenth century
the English were so covetous of it that they took it away
from us, and now it stands in Westminster, London, and
upon it stands the coronation chair where all the English
sovereigns have been crowned, and upon which, I be-
lieve, Victoria sat at her Jubilee, two years ago. Some
people say that this is the very stone that Jacob used as
a pillow when he dreamed the wonderful dream of the
ladder — but Father says that is nonsense.

This stone, however, has something wonderful about
it. It has been called for more than a thousand years
the " Stone of Destiny." And this has been said of it :

" Wherever rests this holy stane,
The Scottish race shall surely reign ! "

Up to this time, this has turned out true. All the
people of your country who come to England go to see
this stone.

Although you have no king or queen, yourselves, I
have no doubt if you had a stone like this you would
soon get one, and save the trouble of so many elections.
I remain, your constant reader,

Bessie T. B , age 13.

We thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters which we have received from them : Mary
C. B., Mildred C, Fred B., Bettie E. T., Mabel P. H.,
Cornelia S., James L. S., Constance K. H., Robert H.
C, Zoe G. S., W. Dorman, Charlotte E., Rose M. H.,
Belle A. H., Katie R. C, Gerty L., Emily B. and Alice
M., M. Agnes B., Albert L. K.', Helen L., Stanley W.,
Lucia W. M., Helen and Alfred M., Adele C, Mabel S.,
Harry N. B., "The Little Left-handed Girl," Anna H.,
C. M. Y., " The Two Margarets," E. W. J., Carmen W.,
" Rae and Gae," G. F. and C. G., Richard T. W., Isabel
V. M. L., E. S. Hine, Elizabeth F., Charlotte E. B., G. C,
Edith F., Ralph G., Harry B., Lily G., M. J. S., Lucille
W. S., Muriel D., Nettie P. R., Pansy M., Agnes M.,
Hamish C, Stella C, Alfreda H. W., Amar, Orville C.
P., " Ida," Hyacinthe S. C, Margaret S. B., Honoria
P., Hattie W., N. Reall, "Clara, Allan, Alice, Georgie,
May, and Grace," Mildred D. C, Majorie B. A., Mary
Emma W., Marvin D., Astley P. C. A., L. de B. P.,
Carrie R., Mamie L., Edith and Adele, Marie L. S.,
J. G. P., Hellen,Zillah, and Bessie S., Natalie M., Cathe-
rine and Alexandre de M-N., Charlotte P., Louisa B.,
Louise C, Hildegarde H., G. F. Dolson, May A. W.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE DECEMBER NUMBER.

Double Acrostic. Primals, Christmas Tide ; finals,
Childermas Day. Cross-words: i. Chromatic. 2. Hem-
istich. 3. Ranunculi. 4. Impartial. 5. Stupefied.
6. Turbinate. 7. Midsummer. 8. Asphaltum. 9. Sub-
strata. 10. Tinctures. II. Impeached. 12. Discordia.
13. Extremity.

Illustrated Puzzle. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley.
Cross-words: 1. Holly. 2. Tents. 3. Horns. 4. Dance.

5. Parry. 6. Fruit.

Double Diamond. Across: I. M. 2. Cit. 3. Palet.
4. Horicon. 5. Detur. 6. Tim. 7. A. Downward :
I. H. 2. Pod. 3. Caret. 4. Militia. 5. Tecum. 6. Tor
(rid). 7. N.

Double Final Acrostic. Fourth row (downward),
Mistletoe ; fifth row (upward), Xmas Story. Cross-
words : 1. Palmy. 2. Choir. 3. Lasso. 4. Scott. 5. Foils.

6. Moles. 7. Aorta. 8. Axiom. 9. Silex.

Pentagon, i. S. 2. Awe. 3. Arias. 4. Swingle.

5. Eagles. 6. Sleep. 7. Espy.
Pi. January sparkles cold,

February glitters,
March comes in, a muddy scold,
April sobs and titters;
Tracking close her bridesmaid May,
Blushes June with roses sweet;
Then the smell of new-mown hay,
Then the waves of golden wheat,
Then the sentinel of Fall;
Then the wizard month of all ;
Then the fireside glows, and then
Christmas comes to earth again.
Diagonal. Diagonals, Mozart. Cross-words: I. Mid-
dle. 2. Cohort. 3. Wizard. 4. Canada. 5. Unfurl.

6. Packet.

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East
Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from J. B.
Swann — Paul Reese — "TheWise Five" — David and Jonathan — " Maxie and Jackspar " — Helen C. McCleary —
Josephine Sherwood — Blanche and Fred — Jo and I — IdaC. Thallon — Jamie and Mamma — " Wit and Humor"—
Granbery — A. L. W. L. — Nellie L. Howes — William H. Beers — No Name, Elizabeth, N. J. — Mary L. Gerrish.

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Marion
Hughes, 1 — " Al. Addin," 2 — Joseph J. Cornell, I — Thorne Blandy, 1 — Two Cousins, 3 — Laura G. Levy, 8 —
Maude E. Palmer, 9 — A. B. Burns, 2 — Uncle Wise, I — Alice M. Smith, 4 — Ruth Myers and Alta Fellows, 1 —
May Smith, 5 — Mary E. Colston and Mamma, 4 — Double Beach, 1 — Gertrude Fulton, 3 — John Simpson, 1 —
Hubert Bingay, 6 — George Seymour, 9 — Laura Pandely, 1 — Dudley S. Steele, Jr., 1 — No Name, New York, 2 —
John W. Frothingham, Jr., 4 — May Balfour, I — " Richard Coeur de Lion," I — Honora G. S., 2 — Agnes Willaril
Bartlett, 2 — "Two Dromios," 3 — "Three School Girls," 4 — Milly Vincent, 1 — A. E. Wickes, 2 — " Hermia," 1 —
Anna W. Ashhurst, 5 — A. P. C. Ashhurst, 3 — L. de B. P., 1 — Effie K. Talboys, 7— Carrie Rockwell, 1 — Frank
Warren, 1 — Freddie Sutro, 2 — Katie Van Zandt, 4 — Margaret L. P., 2 — Ethel Taylor, 1 — Hattie Wilder, 1 —
Eire B., 1 — Fred Banister, 3 — F. H. P. and R. B. L., 1 — Grace McBride, 1 — Arthur B. Lawrence, 2 — Bella
Myers, 1 — J. S. N., 7— Bessie Mcintosh, 1 — "May and '79,"6— M. H., 2 — "Miss Flint," 9 — Lillian and
Bertha Cushing, 2 — Albert E. Clay, 7 — Eddie T. Lewis, 1 — Charles Beaufort, 3 — " Little Women," 4 — ' Grand-
ma," 6 — Mamma and Jenny, 2 — "The Trio," 7 — Mabel E. Bremer, 1 — H. M. C. and Co., 1 — Mary Cave and
Grace Allonby, 3 — E. R. Tinker, Jr., 1 — Lisa D. Bloodgood, 5 — Ellen Smith, 5 — " Dombey and Son," 4 —
" Skipper," 3 — -Willie Curtiss, 1 — Alice H. Guild, 1 — Edna McNary, 1 — Flora G. Clark, 1 — " Coeur de Lion and
Shakespeare," 7 — "All Work," 7.

Telvew rome fibluteau sthmon ot gwins

Mofr teh bingned boguh fo emit,

Ot dub nad slomsob ni suyjoo grinsp

Nad dilye ni eth mursems emrip

Chir tifur fo bolen thoghut dan dede

Rof eht tumuna, ster dan eht stewrin eden.

DIAGONALS.

The diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner to the
lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of a little
cripple figuring in one of Dickens's stories.

Cross-words : 1. Affliction. 2. The smallest kind of
type used in English printing. 3. The owner of a famous
box which is fabled to have been bestowed by Jupiter.
4. A man who attends to a dray. 5. A large artery.
6. Conciliatory. 7- A reward or recompense, c. B.

ZIGZAG.

Each of the words described contains the same num-
ber of letters. When these are rightly guessed, and
placed one below the other, the zigzag, beginning at the
upper left-hand corner, will spell the name of a famous
American statesman who was born in January, 1757.

Cross-words : 1. A tree. 2. Ailing. 3. Misery.

4. A tool. 5. Some. 6. A hotel. 7. To command.
8. A fit of peevishness. 9. An animal. 10. Wary.
11. A meadow. 12. A foreign watering-place. 13. A
vine. 14. A beverage. 15. A portion. 16. A habitual
drunkard. 17. Modern. alpha zeta.

OCTAGON.

I . 2

8 3

7 . . . . 4

6 ■ 5

From 1 to 2, a product of North Carolina ; from 2 to
3, a color ; from 3 to 4, a cave ; from 4 to 5, a pile of cloth ;
from 5 to 6, equal value; from 6 to 7, a fabulous bird ;
from 7 to 8, a carriage; from 8 to 1, a small animal.

Across: i. A sailor. 2. Abundant. 3. Fought. 4. A
diplomatist's companion. 5. A badge on the sleeve.
6. A musical drama. 7. A tap. H. and b.

279

28o

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE.

From i to 14, hackneyed ; from 2 to 14, a wandering
troop ; from 3 to 14, a bird whose figure is often used
as an heraldic emblem ; from 4 to 14, destitute of color;
from 5 to 14, a fraction of a pound; from 6 to 14, an
East Indian coin ; from 7 to 14, faithful ; from 8 to 14,
compact; from 9 to 14, a fund; from 10 to 14, a scale;
from 11 to 14, a corner; from 12 to 14, to tinge deeply;
from 13 to 14, a river of Europe.

Perimeter, from I to 13, will form three words, — a
subject of frequent discussion.

BLANCHE AND FRED.

DIAMONDS.

I. I. In sunflower. 2. A Hebrew. 3. A gem. 4. Per-
taining to the commencement of the year. 5- Abound-
ing with useless plants. 6. A poem. 7. In sunflower.

II. I. In cabin. 2. A projecting part of a wheel.
3. Dens. 4. A country of Europe. 5. To deserve. 6.
To hold a session. 7. In cabin. F. P. AND D. N.

DOUHLE CENTRAL ACROSTIC.

Each of the words described contains eight letters.
When these are rightly guessed and placed one below
the other, in the order here given, the fourth row of let-
ters, reading downward, will spell the name of one who
has been called " the greatest orator that has ever lived
in the Western hemisphere"; he was born in January,
1782. The fifth row of letters will spell the name of
another famous orator who succeeded the former in an
important office ; he died in January, 1865.

Cross-words: i. Blames. 2. A place of bliss. 3. In
a descending course. 4. Disagreement. 5. Slandered.

6. A measure of thirty-six bushels. 7. Bestowed liber-
ally. 8. Painful. 9. Stipends in cathedral churches.
10. A kind of rose. 11. Simulation. 12. Accosting.
13. A member of a princely court. F. s. F.

PECULIAR RHOMBOID.

Reading Downward: i. In salad. 2. Amass of
unsorted type. 3. A monstrous bird of Arabian mythol-
ogy. 4. A very light substance. 5. A rodent of the
genus Lepns. 6. An abbreviation often found in anthol-
ogies. 7. Rodents of the genus Mus. 8. A boy. 9. A
masculine nickname. 10. In salad.

When the words described have been rightly guessed,
and placed in the manner shown in the diagram, the
upper and lower rows of letters (indicated by stars)
will spell the Christian name and surname of a famous
writer of Christmas stories.

RIMLESS WHEELS AND HUBS.

8 2

16 10

15 11 .

14 12

I. From 1 to 9, evidence ; from 2 to 10, a Jewish
title of respect ; from 3 to II, a support for a picture;
from 4 to 12, a single oar used in propelling a boat;
from 5 to 13, to fascinate ; from 6 to 14, outlay ; from
7 to 15, an instructor; from S to 16, hackneyed.

Perimeter of wheel (from 1 to 8), a distinguished his-
torian who died January 28, 1S59. Hub of wheel, the
surname of a President of the United States who was
born January 7, 1800.

II. From 1 to 9, a proper name found in II. Samuel,
11,3; from 2 to 10, a very famous singer ; from3ton,
a masculine name; from 4 to 12, a rich fabric ; from 5
to 13, one of the West Indies; from 6 to 14, mimicking;
from 7 to 15, a country of East Africa; from 8 to 16,
to long for.

Perimeter of wheel (from 1 to 8), a church festival
occurring in January. Hub of wheel, the name of a State
admitted into the Union in January, 1837. F. s. F.

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK.

c,. : ; .ONM'.JiV>,!' ~"t ~ ■::. " ~

THE "ADLER" PLUNGING TOWARD THE REEF.

{SEE "THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA," PAGE 28S.)

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

FEBRUARY, 1890.

No. 4.

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

RETOLD FOR AMERICAN YOUNG FOLK.

By John P. Dunning,

Lately Correspondent at Samoa for tlie Associated Press.

Something more than a year ago the politi-
cal situation at Samoa caused public attention
to be directed toward that little group of islands
in the South Pacific.

Affairs had reached a point which seemed to
make it necessary for the United States Gov-
ernment to send a strong naval force there to
protect American interests, and measures were
accordingly taken by the Navy Department at
Washington to have three men-of-war stationed
at the islands. Both Germany and Great Brit-
ain were also represented there by a strong force,
and there was consequently much speculation in
the United States, as well as in European coun-
tries, as to the probable result of so large an as-
semblage of war- vessels in Samoan waters.

This state of affairs caused my being sent to
that far-off country by the Associated Press last
February. My position was that of a news-
paper correspondent, and my mission was to
keep the American press informed of events
happening on the islands.

Owing to the aggressive policy which had
been pursued by the German naval forces, it
seemed possible that serious complications might
arise between the United States and Germany.
More than a year before, the Germans had car-
Copyright, 1889, by The Century Co.
283

ried off the native king, Malietoa, and banished
him to an island several thousand miles away.
They had then undertaken to establish a new-
government, and had proclaimed Tamasese — a
native who was easily influenced by them — king
of the country. Tamasese's power did not con-
tinue long, for the great body of the natives soon
rebelled against an administration which had
been forced upon them, and they united under
the standard of Mataafa, a relative and personal
representative of the deposed king Malietoa.
At the outset of the difficulty, Tamasese's fol-
lowing was quite large, and with the support and
assistance of the Germans he prepared to resist
the efforts to overthrow him. A fierce civil war
was waged between the two native factions, and,
after a half-dozen battles had been fought, Tam-
asese was forced to leave Apia, where the seat
of government was located, and take refuge with
his few remaining followers ,in a strongly forti-
fied position about eight miles from there.

During the whole time that the natives were
fighting among themselves, the Germans had
openly espoused Tamasese's cause, and their
war-vessels had gone so far as even to bombard
several native villages.

They did not, however, come into open con-

284

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

flict with Mataafa's men until December, 1888,
when a body of German sailors landed, several
miles from Apia, and made an attack upon the
natives. The latter offered a strong resistance,
and, in the battle which followed, the Germans
were utterly routed and fifty of their number
killed and wounded. This battle led to an open
declaration of war on the part of the Germans,
and their aggressions soon became so alarming
that American interests in Samoa were thought
to be endangered.

At that time the only American man-of-war
stationed there was the " Nipsic," commanded by
Commander D. W. Mullan. The actions of the
Germans were at once brought to the attention
of the American Government, and orders were
issued for the " Trenton " and " Vandalia " to
proceed to Samoa. The Trenton was the flagship
of Rear- Admiral L. A. Kimberly, and was one of
the largest vessels in the navy. Her commander
was Captain N. H. Farquhar. The Vandalia
was smaller than the Trenton, but larger than
the Nipsic, and was commanded by Captain C.
M. Schoonmaker.

When I arrived at Apia, the principal settle-
ment on the islands, and. in fact, the only place
which has any white population, I found six men-
of-war lying in the little harbor in front of the
town. Two of these were the American vessels
Vandalia and Nipsic, and the others were the
German ships "Adler," "Olga," and "Eber,"
and the British ship " Calliope." The American
frigate Trenton arrived a few days later.

.Much of the excitement which had prevailed
on the islands during the few previous months
had subsided by that time, and I felt that my
mission as a war-correspondent was likely to
prove fruitless.

But I had not been at Apia three weeks before
I was called upon to witness the greatest marine
disaster of the century, in which four men-of-war
and ten other vessels were totally wrecked, and
nearly one hundred and fifty lives were lost. A
hurricane, which is not an uncommon occur-
rence in that part of the world, broke upon the
harbor and raged with a fury hardly to be imag-
ined for nearly thirty-six hours before it had com-
pleted its work of destruction.

I prepared for the Associated Press a long
account of the storm, which was published in

the newspapers of the country last April ; and
upon my return from Samoa, a short time ago, I
was requested by the editor of St. Nicholas
to write a description of the great disaster, ad-
dressed especially to its readers. I have under-
taken the task in the belief that the exciting
incidents of that awful day, when many a brave
sailor met his death in the angry waves of Apia
harbor, will be of intense interest to the youth
of America, and that the examples of bravery
and patriotism which were displayed in those
trying hours will prove valuable lessons to every
boy in whose heart is growing a love of country
and an admiration of noble deeds. The account
that is here given is in some respects identical
with the news report of the storm which I wrote
last April ; but I have endeavored to embody
in this a number of personal experiences and
patriotic features which impressed themselves
strongly upon me at the time and will live long
in the memory of all who witnessed the destruc-
tion of life and property on that occasion.

The harbor in which the disaster occurred is
a small semicircular bay, around the inner side
of which lies the town of Apia. A coral reef,
which is visible at low water, extends in front of
the harbor from the eastern to the western ex-
tremity, a distance of nearly two miles. A break
in this reef, probably a quarter of a mile wide,
forms a gateway to the harbor. The space
within the bay where ships can lie at anchor is
very small, as a shoal extends some distance out
from the eastern shore, and on the other side
another coral reef runs well out into the bay.

The American consulate is situated near the
center of the line of houses composing the town,
and directly in front of it is a long strip of
sandy beach. The war-vessels were anchored
in the deep water in front of the American con-
sulate. The Eber and Nipsic were nearest the
shore. There were ten or twelve sailing vessels,
principally small schooners, lying in the shallow
water west of the men-of-war.

The storm was preceded by several weeks of
bad weather, and on Friday, March 15, the wind
increased and there was every indication of a
hard blow. The war-ships made preparation for
it by lowering topmasts and making all the spars
secure, and steam was also raised to guard against
the possibility of the anchors not holding.

go. J

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

285

By eleven o'clock at night, the wind had
increased to a gale. The crews on most of
the sailing vessels put out extra anchors and
went ashore. Rain began to fall at midnight,
and the wind increased in fury. Great waves
were rolling in from the open ocean, and the
pitching of the vessels was fearful. The Eber
commenced to drag her anchors at midnight,
and an hour later the Vandalia was also drag-
ging. However, by using steam they succeeded
in keeping well off the reef and away from the
other vessels. The wind blew more and more
strongly, and rain fell in torrents. By three
o'clock the situation had become alarming.
Nearly every vessel in the harbor was dragging,
and there was imminent danger of collisions.
There was no thought of sleep on any of the
ships, for every man was needed at his post.

On shore, the howling of the wind among the
trees and houses, and the crash of falling roofs,
had aroused many persons from their beds, and
figures were soon seen groping about the street
looking for some spot sheltered from the tem-
pest. The tide was coming in rapidly, and the
surf was breaking all over the street, a hundred
feet above the usual high-water mark. The
spray was thrown high in the air and beat into
the windows of houses nearest the shore. Rain
fell like sleet, and men and women who were
wandering about in the storm shielded their faces
with small pieces of board or with any other
article that could be used as a protection
against the wind and sand.

I had spent the evening indoors and had re-
tired about eleven o'clock. The house which I

occupied was some distance from the shore and
was surrounded by a thick growth of trees.
Several of these had fallen with a crashing sound,
and I found it impossible to sleep. I arose and
determined to go down to the beach, for I felt
that the vessels in the harbor must be in great
danger. I reached the street with the greatest
difficulty, for I had two treacherous little foot-
bridges to cross, and the night was so dark and
the force of the wind so great that I felt I was
wandering about like a blind man. When I had
walked down to the beach, I looked across the
angry waters at the lights of the vessels and re-
alized far more clearly than before that the storm
was something terrible. I wandered along the
beach for a distance of half a mile, thinking it
possible that I might find some one, but the
whole place seemed to be deserted. The only
light visible on shore was at the American con-
sulate. I found a solitary marine on duty as a
sentry there. I exchanged a few words with
him and then retired to a temporary shelter for
several hours, until a number of natives and a
few white persons commenced to collect on the
street. The natives seemed to know better than
the rest that the storm would result in awful
destruction. People soon gathered in little
groups and peered out into the darkness across
the sea of foaming waters. Fear was depicted
upon every face. Men stood close together and
shouted to make themselves heard above the
roar of the tempest.

Through the blackness of the night could be
seen the lights of the men-of-war, and even above
the rushing and roaring of the wind and waves,

286

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

THE LOSS OF THE " EBER.

the shouting of officers and men on board
came faintly across the water. It could be
seen that the vessels were dragging, as the
lights were moving slowly in different direc-
tions and apparently crossing and recrossing
each other. Every moment it seemed as if
two or more of the great war-ships were about
to come together, and the watchers on the beach
waited in breathless anxiety to hear the crash
of collision.

A little after five o'clock, the first faint rays
of dawn broke upon the scene and revealed a
spectacle not often witnessed. The position of
the vessels was entirely changed. They had

been swept from their
former moorings and
were all bearing down
in the direction of the
inner reef. Black smoke
was pouring from their
funnels, showing that
desperate efforts were
being made to keep them
up against the storm.
The decks swarmed with
men clinging to masts or
to anything affording a
hold. The hulls of the
ships were tossing about
like corks, and the decks
were being deluged with
water as every wave
swept in from the open
ocean. Several sailing
vessels had gone ashore
in the western part of the
bay. The Trenton and
Vandalia. being farther
out from the shore than
the other ships, were al-
most obscured by the
blinding mist. The ves-
sels most plainly visible
were the Eber, Adler,
and Xipsic. They were
very close together and
only a few yards from
the reef.

The little gun-boat
Eber was making a
desperate struggle, but every moment she was
being driven nearer and nearer the reef. Her
doom was certain. Suddenly she shot forward
as if making a last effort to escape destruction.
The current, however, bore her off to the right,
and her bow struck the port quarter of the
Xipsic, carrying away several feet of the Xip-
sic's rail and one boat. The Eber then fell
back and fouled with the Olga, and after that
she seemed unable to make any effort to save
herself. Awful seas broke over the little vessel
as she swung around broadside to the wind.
Presently she was lifted high on the crest of a
great wave and hurled with awful force upon

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

287

the reef. In an instant there was not a vestige
of her to be seen. She struck fairly upon her
bottom, rolled over toward the sea, and disap-
peared from view. Every timber must have
been shattered, and half the poor creatures
aboard of her crushed to death before they felt
the waters closing above their heads. Hundreds
of people were on the beach by this time, and
the work of destruction had occurred within
full view of them all. They stood for a moment
appalled by the awful scene, and a cry of hor-
ror arose from the lips of every man who had
seen nearly a hundred of his fellow-creatures
perish in an instant. Then with one accord
they all rushed to the water's edge nearest the
point where the Eber had foundered. The
natives ran into the surf far beyond the point

lonely isle thousands of miles from his native
land ; the savage forgot the oppression which
a civilized people had placed upon him, and
now held out his hand to save a human life,
caring little whether it was that of friend or foe.

At first it seemed as if every man on the ill-
fated steamer had gone to his death. Not even
a hand appeared from the depths where the
Eber sank. But the breakers on the reef had
hidden a few struggling men who had come to
the surface and struck out feebly for shore.

Presently a man was seen clinging to the pil-
ing of a small wharf near by. Willing hands
soon grasped him and drew him up on shore.
He was a young man with a handsome, boyish
face, and wore the uniform of an officer. He
proved to be Lieutenant Gtedeke, and was the

BOW OF THE GERMAN GUN-BOAT " EBER, WHICH BROKE OFF AND FLOATED UP ON THE BEACH WHEN THE VESSEL
STRUCK THE REEF. THE SHU* ON THE RIGHT IS THE "TRENTON." IN THE DISTANCE IS THE " ADLER "

OVERTURNED ON THE REEF.

where a white man could have lived, and
stood waiting to save any one who might rise
from the water. There was no thought of the
war between Germany and Samoa ; there was
no sign of enmity against the people who had
banished their king and carried him off to a

only officer of the Eber who was saved. Lieu-
tenant T. G. Fillette, the marine-officer of the
Nipsic, who for several months had been
stationed on shore in charge of the guard of
marines at the American consulate, took the
German officer under his care.

2.88

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

Four sailors from the Eber were found strug-
gling in the water near shore about the same time.
They were quickly rescued by the natives and
also taken to the American consulate. There
were six officers and seventy men on the Eber
when she struck the reef, and of these five offi-
cers and sixty-six men were lost.

Lieutenant Gredeke, the survivor, was almost
heartbroken over the sad fate of his fellow-offi-
cers and men. He was the officer of the watch
and was on the bridge when the Eber went
down. He said that all the other officers were
below, and he supposed they were crushed to
death. It was about six o'clock in the morning
when the Eber foundered.

During the excitement attending that calamity
the other vessels had been for the time forgotten ;
but we soon noticed that the positions of several
of them had become more alarming. The Ad-
ler had been swept across the bay, being for a
moment in collision with the Olga.

She was now close to the reef, about two hun-
dred yards west of the point where the Eber
struck, and, broadside on, like the Eber, she
was approaching her doom.

In half an hour she was lifted on top of the
reef and turned completely over on her side.
Nearly every man was thrown into the water.
They had but a few feet to swim, however, to
reach the deck, as almost the entire hull was out
of water. Only twenty men were drowned
when the steamer capsized.

The others clung to the guns and masts in
safety, and as the bottom of the vessel was
toward the storm, the men on the deck were
well protected. Natives stretched a rope from
the shore to the Adler during the day, and a
number of sailors escaped by that means. But
the rope parted before all had left the vessel,
and the others were not taken off until next
day. They clung to the wreck during the long
weary hours of the day and night, and were
greatly exhausted when they finally reached the
shore.

Just after the Adler struck, the attention of
every one was directed toward the Nipsic.
She was standing off the reef with her head
to the wind, but the three anchors which she
had out at the lime were not holding, and
the steamer was beina; beaten back toward the

point where the Eber went down. It was only
by the most skillful management that her of-
ficers and crew were saved from the same
fate that befell the Eber. The Nipsic also
narrowly escaped destruction by being run
into by the Olga, and it was the blow she
received from that vessel which finally sent
her ashore. As she was trying to avoid a col-
lision with the Olga, the little schooner " Lily "
got in her track and was cut down. There
were three men on the Lily, two of whom
were drowned, but the third swam to the Olga
and reached her deck in safety.

As the Nipsic's anchors were not holding, or-
ders were given to attach a hawser to a heavy
eight-inch rifle on the forecastle and throw the
gun overboard. As the men were in the act of
doing this, the Olga bore down on the Nipsic
and struck her amidships with awful force.
Her bowsprit passed over the side of the
Nipsic, and, after carrying away one boat and
splintering the rail, came in contact with the
smokestack, which was struck fairly in the cen-
ter and fell to the deck with a crash like thun-
der. For a moment it was difficult to realize
what had happened, and great confusion fol-
lowed. The crew believed the ship was going
down, and men ran up in the rigging for safety.
The iron smokestack rolled from side to side
with every movement of the vessel until finally
heavy blocks were placed under it. By that
time, the Nipsic had swung around and was
approaching the reef. It was an anxious mo-
ment for all on board. They had seen the
Eber strike a few yards from where they now
were, and it seemed certain that they would
go down in the same way. Having lost her
smokestack, the vessel was unable to keep up
her steam power. Captain Mullan was upon
the bridge at the time, with Ensign H. P. Jones,
the latter being the officer of the watch. The
captain remained cool and collected during the
dangerous moment. He saw that in another
moment the Nipsic would be on the reef, and
probably every man aboard be lost. Any further
attempt to save the vessel would be useless, so
he gave the orders to beach her. The limited
amount of steam which could still be carried,
was brought into use and her head was put
around toward the shore. She had a straight

1890.]

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

-89

course of about two hundred yards to the sandy
beach in front of the American consulate.

There were then several hundred natives and
about fifty white persons, principally Americans
and Englishmen, standing near the water's
edge watching the critical manoeuvers of the
Nipsic, and I remember the feeling of dread
which came over me as I saw the vessel run-
ning alongside the dangerous reef, liable at any
moment to be dashed to pieces upon it. As she
came nearer the shore I could easily distinguish

Just as the vessel struck, five sailors jumped
into a boat and commenced to lower it, but the
falls did not work properly and one end of the
boat dropped, throwing the men into the water,
and drowning all of them. Another boat, con-
taining Dr. E. Z. Derr, the ship's surgeon, and
a half-dozen sick men, was lowered in safety, but
it capsized before it reached shore.

The men were within a few feet, however,
of the natives who were standing waist-deep in
the surf, and they were pulled up on the beach

"THE SAMOANS STOOD BATTLING AGAINST THE SURF, RISKING TH

LIVES TO SAVE THE AMERICAN SAILORS.

the faces of officers who were my personal
friends, and I did not know but that I might
be looking upon them for the last time. Near
me were standing United States Vice-Consul
Blacklock, and Ensign J. L. Purcell, an officer
of the Nipsic who had been on shore during
the night. I could judge from their faces that
their fears were the same as mine. But the
Nipsic escaped the reef and her bow stuck fast
in the sand about twenty yards from the water's
edge. She then swung around, forming an acute
angle with the line of the shore.

and taken to the consulate. Several men on the
Nipsic ran to the rail and jumped overboard.
All these reached the shore, except two sailors
who were unable to swim through the current
and were swept out into the bay and drowned.
By this time every man aboard had crowded
to the forecastle. A line was thrown to the na-
tives, and double hawsers were soon made fast
from the vessel to the shore, and the natives and
others gathered around the lines to assist the
men off. Seumanu Tafa, chief of Apia district,
and Salu Anae, another chief, directed the

290

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

natives in their work. The scene was one of
intense excitement. The seas broke upon the
stern of the Nipsic with awful .force, and it
seemed as if the vessel would be battered to
pieces before the men on her decks could be
saved. The waves were rolling high on the
beach, and the undertow was so strong that
the natives narrowly escaped being washed out
into the bay. The rain continued to pour, and
the clouds of flying sand grew thicker every mo-
ment. The voices of officers shouting to the
men on deck were mingled with the loud cries
and singing of the Samoans as they stood bat-
tling against the surf, risking their lives to save
the American sailors.

To one who saw the noble work of these men
during the storm, it is a cause of wonder that
they should be called savages by more enlight-
ened races. There seemed to be no instinct of
the savage in a man who could rush into that
boiling torrent of water that broke upon the reef,
and place his own life in peril to save the help-
less drowning men of a foreign country.

While Americans and Germans were treated
alike, it was plain that their sympathies were
with the Americans, and they redoubled their
efforts when they saw an opportunity to aid the
men who represented a country which had in-
sisted that their native government should not
be interfered with by a foreign power. During
the trying hours of that day they never faltered
in their heroic efforts when it was possible to
save a life.

As the Nipsic lay helpless on the beach, they
gathered about the vessel and showed a deter-
mination to risk everything to save the officers
and men aboard. Nearly all the American and
English residents of Apia were on the shore in
front of the consulate, and there seemed to be a
willingness on the part of every man to render
whatever assistance was in his power. Ensign
Purcell of the Nipsic and several other Ameri-
cans were up to their waists in the water ready
to lend a hand to the men as they left the ship.
The position was a most dangerous one, as the
waves were washing far up on the beach and
great pieces of floating wreckage were being
swept back and forth. The force of the water
was so strong that it was necessary to hold on
firmly to the life-line which was stretched from

the Nipsic's bow, and I remember once that my
grasp upon the line was broken by an immense
wave which completely enveloped me. I was
thrown violently across the rope, and then as the
water receded I was carried out with it. For-
tunately, two natives caught me before I had
gone too far, and with their assistance I grasped
the line again. There was no attempt to leave
the Nipsic in disorder. Captain Mullan and
several other officers stood by the rail where the
hawsers were made fast, and directed the move-
ments of the men. They came down the ropes
quickly, but the seas were rolling so high under
the bows of the ship that the men were often
entirely submerged and their hold upon the
lines broken. Nothing but the noble efforts of
the natives saved them from being swept out
into the current and drowned. As soon as
each man would come within reach, he would
be grasped in the strong arms of half a dozen
Samoans and carried out of the water. Captain
Mullan insisted upon being the last man to leave
the ship, and he finally found himself on the deck
with Lieutenant John A. Shearman by his side.
The captain, being unable to swim, did not care
to descend the rope by means of his hands and
legs, as all the others had done, so he procured
an empty water-cask and attached it to the haw-
ser. When he was seated in the cask, Lieutenant
Shearman stood alone upon the deck and started
his brave commander down the line. The young
officer then climbed down the rope, and the Nip-
sic was left alone to battle with the waves.

The Nipsic, Adler, and Eber were the small-
est war-ships in the harbor. The four large men-
of-war, the Trenton, Calliope, Vandalia, and
Olga, were still afloat and well off the reef.
They remained in a comparatively safe position
for two hours after the Nipsic was beached, but
persons on the shore were watching them in-
tently all the time. About ten o'clock in the
morning, the excitement on shore began to grow
more intense as the Trenton was seen to be in a
helpless condition. The great vessel was lying
well out in the bay, and, with every wave that
rolled in, her stern would be lifted out of the
water, and it was seen that her rudder and pro-
peller were both gone, and there was nothing
but her anchors to hold her up against the
unabated force of the storm.

iS 9 o.]

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

2QI

The Vandalia and Calliope also were in dan-
gerous positions, bearing back toward the reef
near the point where lay the wreck of the Adler.
Great waves were tossing the two vessels about,
and they were coming closer together every
minute. The Vandalia attempted to steam
away, but in doing so a collision occurred.
The iron prow of the Englishman was lifted
high in the air and came down with full force
upon the port quarter of the Vandalia. The
jib-boom of the Calliope was carried away, and

He accordingly gave orders to let go all anchors.
The Calliope's head swung around to the wind
and her engines were worked to their utmost
power. The steamer seemed to stand still for
a moment, and then the rapidly revolving pro-
peller had its effect, for the vessel moved up
slowly against the great waves which broke over
her bows and flooded her decks from stem to
stern. Clouds of black smoke poured from her
funnel as more coal was thrown into the furnaces.
Every tension was strained in her heroic strug-

THE "ADLER OVERTURNED ON THE REEF.

the heavy timbers of the Vandalia were shivered.
Every man who stood upon the deck of the
Vandalia near the point of collision was thrown
from his feet by the shock.

A hole was torn below the rail, and water
rushed into the cabin. It was impossible to as-
certain the extent of the damage at the moment,
but it seemed as if the Vandalia had received
her death-blow. Men rushed up the hatches in
the belief that the steamer was sinking, but they
afterward returned to their posts. Just after
this collision, Captain Kane of the Calliope de-
termined to make an effort to steam out of the
harbor, as he saw that to remain in his pres-
ent position would lead to another collision with
the Vandalia or throw his vessel upon the reef.

gle against the storm. She seemed to make her
headway at first inch by inch, but her speed
gradually increased until it became evident that
she could clear the harbor.

This manceuver of the gallant British ship is
regarded as one of the most daring in naval
annals. It was the one desperate chance offered
her commander to save his vessel and the three
hundred lives aboard. An accident to the
machinery at this critical moment would have
meant certain death to all. Every pound of
steam which the Calliope could possibly carry
was crowded on, and clown in the fire-rooms the
men worked as thev never had worked before.
To clear the harbor, the Calliope had to pass
between the Trenton and the reef, and it re-

>92

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

quired the most skillful seamanship to avoid a
collision with the Trenton, on the one hand, or
total destruction upon the reef, on the other.
The Trenton's fires had gone out by that time,
and she lay helpless almost in the path of the
Calliope. The doom of the American flagship
seemed but a question of a few hours. Nearly
every man aboard felt that his vessel must soon

PUTTING TO SEA.

be dashed to pieces, and that he would find a
grave under the coral reef. The decks of the
flagship were swarming with men, but, facing
death as they were, they recognized the heroic
struggle of the British ship, and as the latter
passed within a few yards of them a great shout
went up from over four hundred men aboard the
Trenton. " Three cheers for the Calliope ! " was
the sound that reached the ears of the British
tars as they passed out of the harbor in the teeth
of the storm ; and the heart of every English-
man went out to the brave American sailors who
gave that parting tribute to the Queen's ship.

A well-known London journal afterward re-
marked, " The cheer of the Trenton's men was
the expression of an immortal courage. It was
distressed manhood greeting triumphant man-
hood, the doomed saluting the saved." The
English sailors returned the Trenton's cheer,
and the Calliope passed safely out to sea, re-
turning when the storm had abated. Captain

Kane, her commander, in speaking of the inci-
dent afterward said, " Those ringing cheers of
the American flagship pierced deep into my
heart, and I will ever remember that mighty
outburst of fellow-feeling which, I felt, came
from the bottom of the hearts of the gallant
Admiral and his men. Every man on board
the Calliope felt as I did ; it made us work to
win. I can only say, ' God bless America and
her noble sailors ! ' "

When the excitement on the Vandalia which
followed the collision with the Calliope had
subsided, it was determined to beach the vessel.

Lieutenant J. W. Carlin, the executive officer,
was practically in command, as Captain Schoon-
maker had been thrown across the cabin the
night before and severely injured. The captain
was in a dazed and weakened condition, able to
do little toward directing the movements of the
ship; but, notwithstanding his injuries, he faced
the storm like a hero and stood by the side of
his first officer until the sea finally swept him off
to his death. Of all the officers who did their
duty nobly in the face of danger, none received
more commendation than Lieutenant Carlin.

Officers and men alike spoke of his conduct
in the highest terms of praise, and said that his
cool and calm demeanor kept the men at work
when panic was almost breaking out among
them. He had been on duty since the morning
before and had not tasted food in all that time.

The Vandalia was obliged to move along the
edge of the reef, a distance of several hundred
yards, in order to reach a point in front of the
American consulate where it was thought safe
to run her aground.

Every one on shore stood near the consulate
and watched the vessel steam across the harbor..
Her draught was greater than the Nipsic's, and
it was known that she would not be able to get
very close to the shore. She came on until her
bow stuck in the soft sand, about two hundred
yards off shore and probably eighty yards from
the stern of the Nipsic.

Her engines were stopped and the men in
the engine-room and fire-room below were or-
dered on deck. The ship swung around broad-
side to the shore, and it was thought at first that
her position was comparatively safe, as it was
believed that the storm would abate in a few

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

293

hours and that the two hundred and forty men
aboard could be rescued then.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the Van-
dalia struck, and notwithstanding her easy posi-
tion it soon became apparent that her officers
and crew were in great danger. Nearly all the
officers were on the poop-deck, but their faces
could not be distinguished from the shore on
account of the blinding mist. The men were
scattered about on the gun-deck and on the
forecastle, holding on to the masts and sides of
the ship. In half an hour it was noticed that the

to mean certain death, for a boiling torrent of
water, covered with floating wreckage, was rush-
ing between the Vandalia and the shore.

Notwithstanding the peril of such an act, the
man fastened a small cord to his body, stood by
the rail a moment, and then plunged into the
sea. He had hardly touched the water when
he was thrown violently against the side of the
ship and knocked into insensibility.

There was no possibility of saving him, and
he drowned in sight of all who had witnessed
his heroic action.

BOW OF THE

VANDALIA, — THE ONLY PART OF THE SHIP ABOVE WATER.
THE "TRENTON " ON THE LEFT.

A PART OK THE DF.CK OF

vessel was settling down. Lying as she did, al-
most broadside to the wind, the seas broke over
her furiously and poured down the hatches.

One by one the boats were torn from their
davits and swept away. Efforts were made to
fire lines ashore, but it was impossible to do so
as the ammunition was saturated with water.

One brave sailor, named F. M. Hammer, vol-
unteered to swim through the surf with a line, in
the hope that his comrades might be rescued in
that way. It was an undertaking which seemed

By noon the entire gun-deck of the Vandalia
was under water, and from that time on the con-
dition of those aboard was the most pitiable
that can be imagined.

The torrents of water that swept over the
ship knocked the men from their feet and threw
them against the sides. Several were badly in-
jured. Most of the men sought refuge in the
rigging. A few officers still remained upon the
poop-deck, but a number had gone aloft. The
wind seemed to increase in fury, and as the hull

294

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

TRENTON

3UND, WITH HER STERN RESTING AGAINST THE CORAL REE
ALONGSIDE OF HER. THE " OLGA " ON THE RIGHT.

THE SUNKEN VANDALIA

of the steamer sank lower, the force of the waves
grew more violent. Men on shore were willing
to render aid, but were powerless.

No boat could have lived a moment in the
surf, and it was impossible to get a line to the
vessel as there was no firing-apparatus on shore.

The remembrance of those hours when the
sea was washing over the Vandalia has come to
me many times since then, and the scene is as
vivid as it was when I stood on the beach in
that blinding storm and watched the awful spec-
tacle. I recalled, then, that a few days previous
Captain Schoonmaker had been ashore and had
given me an invitation to go aboard the Van-
dalia and spend some time with him. Circum-
stances had prevented me from accepting his
invitation at the time, but I had intended to
avail myself of the opportunity of passing a few
days at least on a man-of-war, and in fact had
made arrangements to go aboard on the day
before the hurricane, but the early stage of the
storm had already set in then, and the bay was
so rough that the ship could not be reached in
a small boat with safety, so I had been obliged
to postpone my visit. I confess that, as I
watched the vessel that day and saw the waves

sweeping men into the sea, I felt that I had had
a fortunate escape.

When the distressed condition of the Vanda-
lia became apparent, three officers of the Nipsic,
Lieutenant Shearman and Ensigns Purcell and
Jones, made every effort to rescue the men ; and
during the whole day and night, with the assist-
ance of several other Americans and the natives,
they labored incessantly to reach the doomed
vessel and used every means to save the lives of
the men.

A long hawser was procured, and three natives
were found who were willing to venture out in
the surf with a cord and attempt to reach the
Vandalia. The men entered the water a quarter
of a mile above the spot where the steamer lay,
and struck out into the surf with the cord tied
to their bodies.

Shouts of encouragement went up from the
shore, and the Samoans struggled bravely to
reach the sunken ship. But, expert swimmers
as they were, they were unable to overcome the
force of the current, which rushed down like a
cataract between the Vandalia and the shore,
and the men were thrown upon the beach with-
out being able to get within a hundred yards

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

295

of the vessel. Seumanu Tafa, their chief, urged
the men to try again, and several other attempts
were made, but without success.

It was now evident that many of those on
the Vandalia would not be able to withstand the
force of the waves much longer and would be
swept into the sea. Natives waded into the
water and stood just on the edge of the current
ready to grasp any one who should float near
them. The seas continued to break over the
vessel, and it was not long before several men
were washed over the side. As soon as they
touched the water they swam for the Nipsic,
where they grasped ropes hanging over the side
and attempted to draw themselves on deck. A
number succeeded in doing this, but others were
so weak that after hanging to the ropes a mo-
ment their grasp was broken by the awful seas
which crashed against the side of the vessel, and
they would fall back into the current.

The first man who came ashore was Chief
Engineer A. S. Greene.

When he was washed from the deck of the

and fortunately was able to catch a piece of
floating wreckage.

He soon drifted into the current and was
swept down along the shore. The natives saw
his head above the water, and they clasped each
other's hands and formed a long line stretching
out into the current. As the chief engineer
swept by, the native farthest out grasped him
by the arm and brought him to shore.

Just before he was rescued, another man who
had been washed from the Vandalia was seen
clinging to a rope by the side of the Nipsic.
The waves had torn away all his clothing.

There were several Vandalia sailors aboard
the Nipsic by this time, and he shouted to
them to draw him up, but his voice was lost
in the roar of the wind, and after clinging to
the rope a while longer he let go and grasped
a piece of board which was floating past him.
He also was drawn into the current and com-
menced to sweep along the shore. He was
further out than Chief Engineer Greene had
been, but the Samoans were making every effort

*-?4

?~^*f£^^Si|i^^|pg£?j

THE GERMAN CORVETTE OLGA AGROUND ON THE MUD FLATS.

Vandalia, he swam to the Nipsic and caught a to reach him, and had advanced so far into the

rope. He hung there for several minutes and current that they were almost carried away

tried in vain to draw himself up, but finding his themselves. Just as the drowning man was

strength failing, he dropped back into the water within a few feet of the mouth of a small river.

296

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

[Feb.

where another current would have swept him
far out into the bay, the natives caught him and
drew him ashore. He proved to be H. A.
Wiley, a young naval cadet. He was carried
to the consulate insensible, and it was only
after great exertions that he was resuscitated.
It was not long after Greene and Wiley were
washed overboard, that the four officers who
were drowned were swept from the deck.
Captain Schoonmaker was clinging to the rail

refused it. At last a great wave submerged the
poop-deck. Captain Schoonmaker held on to
the rail with all the strength he had left, but the
torrent of water wrenched a machine-gun from
its fastenings and sent it whirling across the deck.
The captain was bending down at the time and
the gun struck him on the head, and either killed
him outright or knocked him insensible, for the
wave swept him from the deck. He sank with-
out a struggle and was seen no more.

THE "TRENTON" DRIFTING UPON THE " VANDAL1A." {SEE PAGE 2QQ.)

on the poop-deck. Lieutenant Carlin was
standing by him trying to hold the captain
•on, as the latter was becoming weaker every
minute. Every one on the deck saw that he
could not stand against the rush of water much
longer. No one knew it better than himself,
and he several times remarked to those about
him that he would have to go soon. Lieuten-
ant Carlin tried to get him up in the rigging,
but the captain said he was too weak to climb
up and would have to remain where he was as
long as possible. He had no life-preserver; one
had been offered him several times, but he had

Paymaster Frank H. Arms and Pay Clerk
John Roche were lying upon the deck ex-
hausted, but clinging with all the strength they
possessed to anything which came within their
grasp. They were washed off together. The
paymaster sank in a moment, but Roche drifted
over to the stern of the Nipsic, where he grasped
a rope. He was a large, fleshy man, and be-
ing greatly exhausted could not possibly draw
himself up on the deck. His hold upon the
rope was soon broken, but he continued to float
under the stern of the Nipsic several minutes,
wildly throwing out his arms in a vain attempt

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

'■97

to clutch something. He finally sank under
the vessel. Lieutenant Frank E. Sutton, the
marine officer, died in nearly the same way.
Weakened by long exposure and the terrible
strain to which he was subjected, he was unable
to retain his hold longer, and was washed over-
board and drowned.

During the remainder of the afternoon there
followed a succession of awful scenes of death
and suffering not soon to be forgotten. The
storm had not abated in the least. The wind
continued to blow with terrible force; waves
that seemed like mountains of water rolled in
from the ocean and broke upon the reef and
over the ill-fated Vandalia. The sheets of water
which fell from the clouds, and the sand which
was beaten up from the shore, struck like hail
against the houses. White men who stood out
in the storm were often obliged to seek shelter
to escape the deluge of rain and sand which cut
the flesh like a knife, and even the natives would
occasionally run for safety behind an upturned
boat or a pile of wreckage.

The Vandalia continued to settle, and the few
men who had not already taken to the rigging
stood on the poop-deck or on the forecastle, as
the vessel amidships was entirely under water.

Almost twenty-four hours had elapsed since
any one aboard had tasted food, and all were
weak and faint from hunger and exposure.

Men were now washed from the decks and
rigging a half dozen at a time, and a few, who
felt that they were growing too weak to hold on,
jumped into the water, determined to make one
last effort to save themselves.

Nearly every man who jumped or was washed
overboard succeeded in reaching the Nipsic,
and a number of them climbed upon the deck
by the aid of ropes. Those who reached the
deck assisted others who were struggling in the
water, and several lives were saved in that way.
But many a poor fellow who reached the Nip- *
sic's side, was unable to hold on to a rope long
enough to be drawn up, and the seas would
wash him away and sweep him into the current.
None of them came near enough to the shore
to be reached by the natives, and those who
once got into the current were carried out into
the bay and drowned.

As I stood on the beach that afternoon, I saw
Vol. XVII.— 35.

a dozen men go down before my eyes. I was
with Lieutenant Shearman and Ensigns Purcell
and Jones, Nipsic officers, and Consul Black-
lock, nearly all the time. We had been drag-
ging heavy hawsers up and down the beach all
day and had adopted every means in our power
to render some assistance to the drowning men.
As we watched them struggling in the water,
far beyond any human aid, I remember how we
felt, that we must do something to reach them ;
but we were powerless. We had seen a hundred
German sailors go down, early in the morning,
and while we had recognized the horror of that
calamity we were not impressed with the same
feeling which came upon us as we saw men of
our own country suffering the same fate. Here
there was a bond of sympathy which appealed
to us as Americans, and one who, in a foreign
land, has ever seen such death and suffering
befall his fellow-countrymen can appreciate the
feeling with which we watched those scenes in
Apia harbor.

By three o'clock, the Vandalia was resting
her whole length on the bottom, and the only
part of her hull which stood out of water was
the after part of the poop-deck and the forward
part of the forecastle. Every man was in the
rigging. As many as could be accommodated
there, had climbed into the tops and sunk down
exhausted upon the small platforms. Others
clung to the ratlines and yards with the desper-
ation of dying men, expecting every moment
to be their last. Their arms and limbs were
bruised and swollen by holding on to the rough
ropes. A number had been greatly injured by
falling about the decks, and many a poor crea-
ture was so benumbed with cold and exposure to
the biting rain, and so weak from want of food,
that he sank almost into insensibility and cared
not whether he lived or died.

More than one man who was clinging to the
ratlines, gave way under the terrible strain and
fell to the deck, only to be washed over the sub-
merged side of the ship and drowned.

A hawser had been made fast from the deck
of the Nipsic to the shore, and the Vandalia
men who had escaped to the Nipsic reached
shore in that way.

The Nipsic had by that time swung out
straight from the shore, so that the distance be-

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

298

tvveen the two vessels was not more than fifty
yards. A small rope was made fast from the
foremast of the Vandalia to the stern of the
Nipsic, and a few men escaped by it, but before
all in the fore-rigging were rescued, the line
parted and could not afterward be replaced.

The terrible scenes attending the wreck of the
Vandalia had detracted attention from the other
two men-of-war which still remained afloat ; but
about four o'clock in the afternoon the positions
of the Trenton and Olga became most alarm-
ing. The flagship had been in a helpless con-
dition for hours.

At ten o'clock in the morning, her rudder and
propeller had been carried away by fouling with
a piece of floating wreckage; and, to add to her
discomfiture, great volumes of water poured in
through the hawse-pipes (the large openings in
the bow through which the anchor-chains pass).
From ten o'clock in the morning until six in the
evening, when she grounded, the Trenton held
out against the storm without steam or rudder,
and her escape from total destruction was mi-
raculous. Admiral Kimberly, Captain Farqu-
har, and Lieutenant Brown, the navigating
officer, stood upon the bridge the whole day and
directed the movements of the ship. For two
hours before the fires were extinguished, the
water was rushing in through the hawse-pipes
and pouring down the hatches into the fire-
room and engine-room. The men at work
there were in a most perilous position, as they
were so far down below the deck that if the
vessel had gone upon the reef suddenly and
sunk, they never could have escaped. Engi-
neers Gait and Matthews were in charge of the
engine-room during the time that the water was
pouring down the hatches. All the men there
stood at their posts until they were waist-deep
in the water and the fires were extinguished.
The berth-deck also was flooded, and efforts
were made to close the hawse-pipes. Lieuten-
ant W. H. Allen remained below all day super-
intending this work, but, though he was partially
successful, the force of the water was so great
that everything placed in the pipes was torn
out. It was a most dangerous post, as the men
stationed there had two decks above them, and
in case the vessel should go down their escape
was shut off. Allen and his men were deluged

fFED.

with the torrents of water which rushed in
through the openings with every pitch of the
vessel. It was necessary to work the pumps
early in the day, and this was kept up con-
stantly. Men never fought against adverse
circumstances with more desperation than the
officers and men of the Trenton displayed dur-
ing those hours when the flagship was beaten
about by the gale. There was not an idle
man on the ship. The entire supervision of
affairs outside of the manceuvering of the vessel
fell upon Lieutenant-Commander H. W. Lyon,
who afterward received the commendation of
his superior officers for the efficient services
which he rendered during the storm. Among
the officers who rendered most valuable assist-
ance were Lieutenants Graham, Scott, and Allen,
and Ensign Blanden.

By the skillful use of a storm-sail, the Trenton
kept well out in the harbor until the middle of
the afternoon, and then she was forced over to-
ward the eastern reef. Destruction seemed im-
minent, as the great vessel was pitching heavily,
and her stern was but a few feet from the reef.
This point was a quarter of a mile from shore,
and if the Trenton had struck the reef there, it is
probable that not a life would have been saved.
A skillful manceuver, which was suggested by
Lieutenant Brown, saved the ship from destruc-
tion. Every man was ordered into the port
rigging, and the compact mass of bodies was
used as a sail. The wind struck against the
men in the rigging and forced the vessel out into
the bay again. She soon commenced to drift
back against the Olga, which was still standing
off the reef and holding up against the storm more
successfully than any other vessel in the harbor
had done. The Trenton came slowly down on the
Olga, and this time it seemed as if both vessels
would be swept on the reef by the collision and
crushed to pieces. People on the shore rushed
to the water's edge and waited to hear the crash
which would send to the bottom both men-of-
war and their loads of human lives. Notwith-
standing the dangerous situation of the ships, a
patriotic incident occurred at this time which
stirred the hearts of all who witnessed it. The
storm had been raging so furiously all day that
not a flag had been raised on any of the vessels.
As the Trenton approached the Olga, an officer

1890. ]

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

> 99

standing near Admiral Kimberly suggested that
the flag be raised. The Admiral, whose whole
attention had been absorbed in directing the
movements of the ship, turned for a moment to
the group of officers near him and said, "Yes;
let the flag go up ! "

In an instant the stars and stripes floated from
the gaff of the Trenton, and to those on shore it
seemed as if the gallant ship knew she was
doomed, and had determined to go down with
the flag of her country floating above the storm.
The Olga, seeing the approach of the Trenton,
attempted to steam away, but just as she had
commenced to move up against the wind, her
bow came in contact with the starboard quarter
of the flagship. The heavy timbers of the
Trenton's quarter were shivered, several boats
were torn from the davits, and the American flag
which had just been raised was carried away and
fell to the deck of the Olga. Fortunately, the
vessels drifted apart after the collision, and no
serious damage was done. The Olga steamed
ahead toward the mud-flats in the eastern part
of the bay, and was soon hard and fast on the
bottom. Not a life was lost, and several weeks
later the ship was hauled off and saved.

The Trenton was not able to get out into the
bay again after her collision with the Olga.
She was now about two hundred feet from the
sunken Vandalia, and was slowly drifting to-
ward the shore. A new danger seemed to arise.
The Trenton was sure to strike the Vandalia,
and to those on shore it seemed that the huge
hull of the flagship would crush the Vandalia
to pieces and throw into the water the men still
clinging to the rigging. It was now after five
o'clock, and the daylight was beginning to fade
away. In a half hour more, the Trenton had
drifted to within a few yards of the Vandalia's
bow, and feelings hard to describe came to the
hundreds who watched the vessels from the
shore.

The memory of the closing incidents of that
day will cling to me through life, for they were
a spectacle such as few have ever seen. No
American can recall those patriotic features
without feeling a glowing pride in the naval
heroes of his country. I was standing with
others as far down on the beach as it was safe
to be, watching the ships through the gathering

darkness, and every incident that occurred came
under my personal notice.

Presently the last faint rays of daylight faded
away, and night came down upon the awful
scene. The storm was still raging with as much
fury as at any time during the day. The poor
creatures who had been clinging for hours to
the rigging of the Vandalia, were bruised and
bleeding; but they held on with the desperation
of men who were hanging between life and
death. The ropes had cut the flesh on their
arms and legs, and their eyes were blinded by
the salt spray which swept over them. Weak
and exhausted as they were, they would be un-
able to stand the terrible strain much longer.
They looked down at the angry waters below
them, and knew that they had no strength left
to battle with the waves. The final hour
seemed to be upon them. The great black
hull of the Trenton could be seen through the
darkness almost ready to crash into the stranded
Vandalia and grind her to atoms. Suddenly a
shout was borne across the waters. The Tren-
ton was cheering the Vandalia. The sound of
four hundred and fifty voices broke upon the
air and was heard above the roar of the tem-
pest. " Three cheers for the Vandalia ! " was
the cry that warmed the hearts of the dying
men in the rigging.

The shout died away upon the storm, and
there arose from the quivering masts of the
sunken ship a response so feeble it was scarcely
heard upon the shore. Men who felt that they
were looking death in the face, aroused them-
selves to the effort and united in a faint cheer
for the flagship. Those who were standing on
the beach listened in silence, for that feeble cry
was the saddest they had ever heard. Every
heart was melted to pity. " God help them ! "
was passed from one man to another. The
cheer had hardly ceased when the sound of
music came across the water. The Trenton's
band was playing "The Star-Spangled Banner."
The thousand men on sea and shore had never
before heard strains of music at such a time
as that. An indescribable feeling came over
the Americans on the beach who listened to
the notes of the national song mingled with the
howling of the storm.

Men who had exhausted every means, during

300

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM AT SAMOA.

the whole of that awful day, of rendering some
assistance to their comrades, now seemed in-
spired to greater effort. They ran about the
beach eager to afford help, even at the risk of life
itself. They looked despairingly at the roaring
torrent of water that broke upon the shore, and
knew that no boat could live in such a sea.
Bravely as the Samoans had acted, there was
not one of them who would again venture
into the surf, where certain death would befall
them.

Persons on shore were simply powerless, and
there was nothing to do but remain on the beach
ready to lend assistance in any possible way
which might present itself.

But the collision of the Trenton and Vanda-
lia, instead of crushing the latter vessel to pieces,
proved to be the salvation of the men in the
rigging. When the Trenton's stern finally struck
the side of the Vandalia, there was no shock, and
she swung around broadside to the sunken ship.
This enabled the men on the Vandalia to es-
cape to the deck of the Trenton, and in a short
time they were all taken off.

By ten o'clock at night, the natives and nearly
all the white persons who had watched the
storm, seemed to be satisfied that no further
harm could come to the two ships; and the
shore, which had been thronged with people
all day, was soon deserted. The three Nipsic
officers and myself patrolled the beach all night
in the hope of rescuing some one who might
not have escaped to the Trenton. We found
but one man, Ensign Ripley, who had jumped
from the Vandalia before the Trenton touched
her, and had reached the shore. He was lying
on the beach exhausted and about to be washed
out by the undertow when we came upon him
and carried him to the consulate. The storm

had abated at midnight, and when day dawned
there was no further cause for alarm. The men
were removed from the Trenton and provided
with quarters on shore.

During the next few days the evidences of
the great disaster could be seen on every side.
In the harbor were the wrecks of four men-of-
war: the Trenton, Vandalia, Adler, and Eber;
and two others, the Nipsic and Olga, were hard
and fast on the beach and were hauled off with
great difficulty. The wrecks of ten sailing ves-
sels also lay upon the reefs. On shore, houses
and trees were blown down, and the beach was
strewn with wreckage from one end of the town
to the other.

Above the whole scene of destruction the
stars and stripes and the flag of Rear-Admiral
Kimberly floated from the shattered masts of
the Trenton, as if to indicate that America was
triumphant even above the storm. The Ameri-
can naval forces took entire control of the town,
and a guard of marines, under Captain R. W.
Huntington of the Trenton and Lieutenant
Fillette of the Nipsic was stationed in every
locality to prevent any trouble which might
arise on account of the great confusion which
prevailed on shore.

A muster showed that one hundred and forty-
four lives had been lost in the storm. Of these,
ninety-one were from the German ships Eber
and Adler. The Vandalia had lost four officers
and thirty-nine men, and the Nipsic had lost
seven men. One man was killed on the Trenton
by a piece of flying timber, and two victims
from the schooner Lily were added to the list.

Not more than one-third of the bodies were
recovered. The others were either swept under
the coral reefs in the harbor, or washed far out
to sea.

MAY BARTLETT'S STEPMOTHER.

By Nora Perry.

Chapter VI.

Cathy turned, and there, between the por-
tieres that separated them from the next room,
stood — Mrs. Bartlett ! How much had she

more easily. Back again among the lights,
the flowers, and the young people, her spirits re-
turned in a measure, though with a wholesome
difference of restraint. May observed her ease
with astonishment. She could think of nothing

heard ? She had heard enough. Her cheeks but that dreadful talk upstairs, specially of that

were scarlet; her eyes were bright with unshed
tears. Silent from horror in the first moment,
in the next, as she saw that look of hurt, May's
heart rose up in one pitiful, pitying, appealing
cry, and that cry was :

" Oh, Mamma ! Mamma ! "

Mrs. Bartlett lifted her head with a quick
start ; she began to speak : " May, I — " then
her voice broke, and the tears that had been
withheld overflowed.

Just here, " Margaret, Margaret, where are
you all ? " Mr. Bartlett was heard calling im-
patiently as he approached from the other room.

Margaret dried her eyes with a swift move-
ment, and, with an entreating, " Come, girls,
come with me," turned away.

Thoroughly subdued and not a little fright-
ened, Cathy made no further attempt at delay,
but followed the others as they obeyed Mrs.
Bartlett's entreaty.

Going down the stairs, Susy, pressing close
to Joanna, whispered softly :

last sentence which her stepmother had over-
heard. And how much more had been over-
heard ?

All the instincts of a lady were beginning to
work in May's mind, and to fill her with self-
disgust and shame. She felt like a little traitor
in her own household — a traitor to her father,
and an ungenerous enemy to her father's wife
— an ungenerous enemy from the first, when
she had willfully misunderstood, and — yes, will-
fully misrepresented the matter of the garden
party. Then one by one her other " grievances "
came up — " grievances " that she had made
much of and confided to Cathy ! Oh, those con-
fidences to Cathy ! They reminded her of the
old mythological story of the dragon's teeth
that Cadmus blindly sowed. They had come
up like armed men to destroy her.

It had been part of the arrangement, when
Cathy had been permitted to spend her vacation
at the Bartletts', that she should return on Satur-
day afternoon to the seminary, that she might

"Joanna, did you notice May called her step- be all ready for school duties upon Monday.

mother ' Mamma,' and did you notice her step-
mother's face ? She cried, but there was a little
smile there, did you notice, Joanna ? "

Joanna squeezed Susy's hand for reply. She
had noticed, but she fancied no one else had
noticed.

How the party ended, May could scarcely
have told you. Everything was like a bad
dream after this, and she moved about mechani-

The party had been the excuse for extending
the hour of return to evening. Both Cathy and
May, at the beginning of the week, had urged,
but without effect, that the visit might extend
to Monday morning. Now, both felt a sense
of relief that they were to separate that night.
Cathy, as usual, was the easier of the two, as
the final good-byes were said. Her glib tongue
did not falter even when she faced Mrs. Bart-

cally in the supper room, answering questions, lett, though, to her credit be it said, a deep blush

now and then seeing that some one was served, suffused her cheeks as that lady came forward

but taking nothing herself; once or twice she with a kindly courtesy the girl knew she did not

saw her stepmother looking at her, but she deserve to receive. As for May, the hardest

could not meet the glance. Cathy took things time of all was when the last carriage drove

3° 2

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Fee.

away and she was left alone with her father and
his wife. Her father would be sure to say some-
thing about Cathy's behavior, though, thanks to
her stepmother, she knew he had heard nothing
of what had occurred upstairs. Perhaps, how-
ever, she could escape. It was a late hour for
her, and she would say good-night in the hall
and run up to bed. She was half-way up the
stairway when Mr. Bartlett called out quickly :

" May ! "

She stopped suddenly, her heart beating vio-
lently, her limbs trembling. The next moment,
she started backward, stumbled and — fell.

" My dear!" and her father sprung forward,
and lifted her in his arms. She lay there quite
still and very pale. " Are you hurt ? " She shook
her head, smiled a little, and tried to help her-
self. As she did so she cried out with pain :

" Oh, my foot ! "

She had sprained her ankle.

" Send for Mrs. Marks, Margaret," Mr. Bart-
lett said, as he carried May into her chamber.

" Mrs. Marks went to bed an hour ago, Ed-
ward, with a sick headache, but if it is a sprain —
I know all about a sprain — and if you will trust
me," — Margaret paused an instant — "you and
May," and she looked down upon May with
questioning eyes.

" Of course, we '11 trust you ; we 're only too
glad to, are n't we, Maisie ? "

May gave a shy assent in a faint " yes,"
yet there was an expression in her face that
did not escape Mrs. Bartlett's eyes. It was
an expression of dread mixed with shame.
But ignoring all this she set about her work
of relief in a pleasant, easy manner, sending
Julie for hot water and bandages, then softly
manipulating the sprained ankle, with a touch
both sure and skillful. There was something
in this touch, delicate and firm, that brought
up to May, by sheer force of contrast, Mrs.
Marks's heavy-handed care. The light move-
ment, too, the soft-voiced orders, the ease
of everything — all were so different from Mrs.
Marks's bustling ways, her step that shook the
room, her incessant talk of pity and question
and anxiety, whenever an accident put any one
under her ministrations.

By degrees, May lost something of that con-
scious feeling of dread and shame as she lay

there. Even when Julie left the room for the
night, and May found herself quite alone with
her stepmother, the dread did not return, and
the keen feeling of shame was softened by a
sense of sorrow and humility for all that she
had thought and said. It was just when this
feeling was strong within her that her step-
mother, turning down the light, approached
the bed with the words :

" There, my dear, I have put this stand beside
you with a bell upon it, and if you need me,
you have only to ring and I shall hear you and
come to you. You say your ankle does not
pain you very much now ? "

" Not nearly as much — just a little."

" Well, I shall be in the next room to you,
and can come to you in a moment if you need
anything."

" In the next room ? " May inquired with
surprise.

■■ Yes, I shall sleep on the lounge there
to-night to be near you."

May looked up quickly, and gave a little
exclamatory " Oh ! "

"What is it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Bartlett,
bending over her.

" Nothing," very faintly.

It was then, with a final adjustment of the
bed-clothing, that her stepmother, turning to
go, said gently :

"Good-night, my dear"; and May, closing
her eyes, answered almost in a whisper :

" Good-night, — Mamma."

In the next instant she felt the touch of soft,
warm lips upon her forehead. She could not
speak. She lay quite still. When she opened
her eyes, she was alone.

On Monday morning, word was sent to the
seminary that Miss Bartlett had sprained her
ankle and would not be able to attend school
for a fortnight at least.

Of course Cathy would be the first to go
and see May, thought the girls. But Cathy
seemed to be in no haste to go. She even ex-
cused herself by saying that she was not well,
when Professor Ingalls proposed that she should
take a message for him to Mrs. Bartlett. And
so it came about that Joanna and Susy were
May's first callers. It was Mrs. Bartlett who
received the visitors, and who went up to an-

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

303

nounce them to May. It happened that she
did not mention their names as she went into
the chamber — that she only said :

" Well, my dear, two of your school friends
have come to cheer you up."

"Oh, I can't — I can't see Cathy — just
now," May cried excitedly.

"But it is n't Cathy; it is Joanna, and that
quaint little girl — I forget her name," Mrs.
Bartlett answered quietly.

" Oh, — Susy ! " And when Joanna and Susy
went into the room the happy relief in May's
heart shone in her face, and gave her greeting
an added warmth.

By and by the girls fell to talking of the party,
of the " good time " they had had, and by and
by, in this talk, that last half-hour — that bad
time that had so spoiled the "good" — was
brought up, and Joanna exclaimed vehe-
mently :

" I think that Cathy Bond would spoil any-
thing. She 's what Professor Ingalls would call
'demoralizing.' She — she tried from the first
to — to — "

Joanna colored a little and stopped.

May took up her words — " to set me against
my stepmother — I know what you were go-
ing to say, but — Joanna — I — I let Cathy
talk — I made her talk by telling her things.
My Cousin Jack said last summer that boys, if
they were rougher than girls, would be ashamed
to do some of the sneaking things that girls do
sometimes, — the things that were unfair and
like little lies. I was awfully vexed when he
said it, but now I think he was just right."

" Oh, no, May," interrupted Joanna sooth-
ingly.

" Yes, I do, — I know he was right." Then,
with a catch in her breath, May went on and
confessed herself — told of her unfair way of
looking at things and of representing them ; of
the garden party, the village- wagon, and other
" little lies " as she now called them.

" But you bejieved you were right then," still
soothingly consoled Joanna.

" I read the other day in a book that people —
some people— lie to themselves and believe
it ! " Susy suddenly broke forth in her queerest
way.

" Oh, Susy ! "cried Joanna, looking at May ;

but May's lips were drawing up from their sad
lines, and as she caught Joanna's eye, she
laughed ; Joanna following in a half-suppressed
giggle-

" But what I can't get over," began May
again, " is that — that last thing that Cathy said
upstairs here, that — Mamma overheard." As
May said this, as she pronounced the word
" Mamma," she colored scarlet.

" You called her ' Mamma,' right there that
night, and, May, she knew how sorry you were
then, for I saw her smile quick and soft, and I
told Joanna about it, did n't I, Joanna ? "

" Oh, but, Susy, that was the least I could do.
I had to say it. It burst out."

" Why don't you say some more — let some
more — what you have told us — ' burst out ' to
her / " quaintly asked Susy.

" Oh,' I don't know how. I feel so mean
when I think of things."

" You would n't feel so mean afterward, and,
May, you do like her, now, don't you; that is,
you don't hate her now, the least bit, do you ? "

Susy did say such things! Joanna turned cold
as she listened. But May answered as if she
was relieved to speak :

" I don't think I ever hated her; it was the
stepmother."

There was a little pause, then Joanna said:

" I think she was lovely — just lovely to Cathy
at the party. I was dancing in the hall, and I
saw and heard everything."

May thought how in the same way she had
been lovely to Cathy through the whole week.

As she thought this, Susy started up from one
of her small reveries and said brightly :

" Oh, I 've been thinking how I wish she
would like me. I think it would be perfectly
beautiful ; she 's so sweet and sort of far off and
up above us, like an elder sister."

Joanna laughed merrily at Susy's sudden out-
burst, but to May the words came more seriously.
She was startled and thrilled by them.

" Sweet and sort of far off and up above us."
It was n't a question of one's liking her, with
Susy. It was who and what she would like.
All at once May knew that it was this that was
of consequence to her now — this regard of her
stepmother. She looked back and saw her from
the first, with that air of fine courtesy that had

3°4

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

[Feb.

never wavered. Then, through the last week,
not only courteous but generously kind. Of
course she would still go on just the same —
that was her way — having kindness and con-
sideration for people who did not deserve it ;
but to have her liking, her loving, — that was
quite another thing.

May was silent so long that Joanna felt that
she was tired, and that it was time for the visit
to end.

Going down the stairs the two girls were met
by Mrs. Bartlett.

" What, going so soon ? " she said. " Can't you
stay longer ? " But when Joanna explained why
they went, she did not urge them to remain.

Left to herself, May's thoughts returned to the
miserable events of the past weeks, the mistakes
of the past month. If she could talk with her
stepmother as she had talked to the girls — as
Susy had recommended ! But how could she ?
" Far off and up above us." Susy's words haunted
her. No, she could never talk to her as she had
talked to the girls. Her stepmother had been
kind to her ; she had kissed her ; but that was
because she meant to do her duty. Over and
over poor May pondered these perplexities. Tired
and spent at last, she covered her face with her
hands, and burst into tears. So absorbed was
she by her miseries that she did not hear the
door open, nor the fall of a light footstep. She
heard nothing until a voice close to her, — her
stepmother's voice, — said gently :

" My dear, what is it ? — Are you so tired ? "

She shook her head ; she was past speaking
just then. Standing beside her Mrs. Bartlett
stroked the tumbled hair with soft quiet touches,
and spoke not a word. By and by, under these
soothing strokes, the sobs grew less, and, pres-
ently, ceased altogether. Then smilingly, but
with an apologetic tone, Mrs. Bartlett said :

" I 'm afraid I have n't taken very good care
of you, my dear, to let you get so tired."

" It was n't that I was tired, I — I — got to
thinking after Joanna and Susy went away."

" And I thought Joanna and Susy were go-
ing to cheer you up."

" Mamma ! " The color rushed into May's
cheeks as she said this.

" Yes, my dear."

"I — I want to tell you something. It was n't

true what Cathy said — that night. I did n't —
I never hated — you."

" I never thought you did. I think I under-
stand. It was — the stepmother, and I see now
how you were encouraged by that hot-headed,
foolish Cathy. My dear, I — "

" No — no. I — I encouraged Cathy to be-
gin with. You must n't think it was all Cathy's
fault." Then, with a swift rush of words, gather-
ing up her courage with the desperate determi-
nation that had come to her, May poured forth
her confessions. All her little prejudices, her
willful injustices, were told unsparingly, and at
the end, with a little shivering sigh that was half
a gasp, she burst out :

"But I never said what Cathy — thought I
did — never, never ! "

" My clear ! "

For the first time since she had fairly started
on her story May looked up and met her step-
mother's eyes. They were full of tears, but the
lips were struggling to smile, to speak. The
girl was startled at these signs of pain. Had
she said too much in this confession ? Some-
thing of this doubt found utterance. Then the
smile gained over the tears.

" Too much ? My dear, you have done the
best thing in the world for both of us. Now we
can understand each other. Oh, you poor lonely
little girl — to think of all these weeks that you
have suffered so ! It makes my heart ache."

May heard these words with bewilderment.

" I thought I was acting for the best when I
let things take their course and waited. I thought
you would resent my going forward, and all this
time I was leaving you to such infl uence — no,
I am not going to blame Cathy, altogether,
but I ought to have gone forward to you at
once — I could have trusted the girl who has
been brave enough to tell the truth as you
have. You would have done me justice, I am
sure. But now we are to be friends — you are
not going — to hate — even the stepmother ? "

She smiled and put out her hand, as she said
this, taking May's cold little fingers in hers.
" No, not even the stepmother, my dear," smil-
ing now a little archly. " You 'have something
to forgive her, perhaps, for coining to you with
so little warning. But I had not intended to —
to come so soon. It wa'j an accident. My

-•]

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

3°5

old guardian with whom I had lived since I
was a child, was failing in health, and wished
to break up his household and go abroad ; but he
made it a point that I must be married before
he went. He was very fond of your father and
had great trust in him, and he wanted to trans-
fer the care of my property, as well as of myself, to
his hands at once. I had not intended to make

life,' and probably has many years before him ;
and, May, your dear mother, when she knew that
she must leave you both, said to him : ' Don't
live alone long. Find somebody whom you can
love and who will love you and be good to
May.' And, my dear, I love him very much,
and I want to ' be good to May,' and love her,
too, if she will let me."

'NOW WE CAN UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER, SAID MRS. BARTLETT.

this change for six months at least, but when
your father joined with my guardian in urging
it, I yielded, and was guided by him, as we are
all guided by those we love and trust. Your
father would have told you all this, no doubt, if
you had been a little older, but girls seem even
younger than they are, to fathers, you know ;
and fathers, — I suppose fathers seem very old
to young daughters like you, May, — too old
to have any right to begin again a home-life
with somebody else. But your father is not an
old man ; he is what is called ' in the prime of
Vol. XVII.— 36.

May looked up into the kind eyes, without a
word, but her fingers closed with a warm press-
ure about the hand that held hers, and Mrs.
Bartlett felt quite content with such an answer.

On the last day of June of this same year, the
Bartlett grounds were gay with tents and arches
and all the rest of the pretty arrangements that
go to make up a garden-party, specially when
the garden-party is also a birthday-party.

" Oh, look, is n't it perfectly beautiful ! " cried
Susy Morris to Joanna, as the two went in under
the gateway arch. " Just look, Joanna, there is

3° 6

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Fed.

her name, 'May,' and underneath, 'Fifteen,' —
made of rosebuds."

But if the girls were delighted with this rose-
bud spelling of May's name and age, how must
they have felt when a few steps farther on they
found themselves under a flowery tent where
stood May and Mrs. Bartlett, distributing to each
guest, as they welcomed each, a little nosegay
of rosebuds tied with ribbon? It was a perfect
day, — all blue sky and sunshine and soft breezes,
and everywhere the scent of roses ; for the Bart-
lett gardens and hot-houses were noted for their
beautiful roses. The guests began to arrive at
three o'clock ; the party was to be from that
hour until seven. The first to arrive were the
seminary class, Joanna and Susy, Elsie and
Cathy Bond, with the dozen other girls who
made up the number. Each one was in white,
Cathy in a brand-new white nun's veiling, with
knots of red ribbon here and there, and a bunch
of red roses at her girdle. May could n't help
thinking of the scarlet kalmia and the night that
it was worn, as she greeted her. Cathy, herself,
if she did not recall the kalmia, could not but
remember that first party, and her cheeks flushed
until they matched her flowers, as she stood be-
fore Mrs. Bartlett. But that lady was kindness
itself. There was not a note in her voice, nor a
look in her eyes, that recalled anything of that
past disagreeable experience.

" I hope when I am a woman I shall know
how to behave just like that," said Joanna ener-
getically, as she and Susy strolled off down one
of the garden paths, after leaving the reception
tent.

" Just like what — like whom ? " asked Susy,
in rather a dazed way.

" Why, like Mrs. Bartlett. Did you see how
nice and easy she was to Cathy, as if Cathy had
always been nice to her, — how she took pains
to change the pink rosebuds tied with pink rib-
bon, for red ones tied with red ribbon, when
she saw Cathy's dress ? I 'm sure Cathy ought
to love her now, and not be offish any more."

" Offish ? " repeated Susy, still in her queer
dazed little way.

" Yes, why you know how she 's acted ever
since that night of the party. She did n't go
near May to inquire how her ankle was, until
it was nearly well, and then she went with one

of the teachers; and since then she has only
been to the house once, — once in all these six
months, — and she has had hardly anything to
say to May since ! "

" Well, but, Joanna, I think that 's because
she 's been ashamed and sorry. I think both
of them, she and May, have felt ashamed
and sorry, and that made them feel queer — and
keep away from each other. I — / think that
'way down in her heart Cathy would like to —
to love Mrs. Bartlett, and to have her love her
a little; for, Joanna, did you notice Cathy's new
dress, and did you notice her hair ? She might
have had the skirt made long if she had chosen
to, but she did n't ; it 's at the top of her boots,
like ours, and instead of piling her hair up high,
as she did that night, it is braided and tied with
ribbon. Now, / think that shows something
how Cathy feels."

" Well, but, Susy, she has been so stiff with
May and all the rest of us, whenever Mrs. Bart-
lett's name has been mentioned ; and don't you
remember when May came back, after she got
well, and there were a lot of us in my room
together one day, and one of the girls said
something about a stepmother, and how May
broke out and made a sort of confession of the
mistakes she had made about her stepmother,
and explained, and took back ever so many
things — don't you remember that right in the
midst of her talk, that Cathy stuck up that little
chin of hers and marched out of the room ? "

" Yes, I remember ; but, Joanna, I can see
how Cathy felt. She felt mortified, and that
made her feel cross ; and she felt, too, that May
was as much to blame as she was, in — in telling
her things, and so, — well, sort of asking for
her pity, and encouraging her to talk. Don't
you see ? "

" Yes, I see, you dear little peace-patcher,
but, all the same, I think Cathy might have
pocketed her ' cross' and just said something —
a word or two that was nice about Mrs. Bart-
lett, after being treated so sweetly by her."

" Cathy did say to me once, when we were
alone, that she guessed May's stepmother was
going to turn out better than we expected."

"She guessed May's stepmother was going to
turn out better than we expected ! Oh, Susy,
that is rich ! — and it is just like Cathy."

MAY BAKTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

30/

" But I think that shows that she 's coming
round all right."

" Well, may be she is ; but it 's coming
round. That 's just it; not standing up fair
and square and saying, like May, that she 's
been in the wrong. I hate roundabout things,
anyway."

" Yes, but Cathy 's always been so at the
head, you know, here at school, so popular,
that I suppose it was n't very easy for her to
come out and say she had been in the wrong."

" She 'd be a good deal more popular if she

'• Turn ti turn, turn ti turn," sung Joanna, as
the sweet scraping of a fiddle-bow started off
on a bar of the " Lancers." The player smiled
and dashed into a swifter movement, and Joanna,
catching Susy about the waist, the two went
dancing down the floor as light of heart as of
foot. By the time they had reached the length
of the tent, other girls came flocking in, and the
harp joining with the fiddles set them all in
motion.

In another part of the grounds there was
tennis for those who liked it, and one could hear

MAV DRIVES THE GIRLS HOME IN THE

would come out like that. There 's May —
none of the girls ever liked her as they do now."
" Yes, I know, but — oh, hark, Joanna, there 's
a fiddle, two fiddles, listen ! They 're tuning up !
We 're going to have music ! "

" And dancing ! That 's what it means ! "
The two girls scampered toward the sound.
It led them around a corner to where stood a big
square tent, open at both ends, and charmingly
decorated ; on a little raised platform above the
main flooring sat two fiddlers and a harper
tuning their instruments.

VILLAGE-WAGON. (SEE NEXT RAGE.)

the jubilant calls of " play," " 'vantage," ringing
out and mingling with the dance-music until
late in the afternoon. Then came the bounti-
ful supper, served under the trees from prettily
arranged little tables, to which all the guests
came flocking with hearty outdoor appetites.
Long before seven o'clock, all the guests had
declared that it was the very prettiest party they
had ever attended, and that they had never
had such a " perfectly beautiful time."

At the very last, the crowning fun for the four
seminary girls came, when May drove them

3 o8

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

[Feb.

home in the village-vagon. It was a roomy
wagon, but five of them — just think of it ! I
don't know how they ever crowded in, but they
did, and Mrs. Bartlett helped them do it, laugh-
ing like a girl herself.

As May turned the pony's head, Susy ex-
claimed :

" But this is n't the old pony — old Jimmy! "

" No, this is a new one. Is n't he a beauty ?
It 's Mamma's birthday present to me, — bought
with her own money, — and — and it was she
who gave me the wagon in the autumn. I
did n't know it until Papa told me this morning."

There was the least little bit of a conscious
pause, then they all began to talk briskly of the
pony's merits, and in the middle of this talk

May asked Cathy if she would n't like to drive.
There was nothing that could have pleased
Cathy more, and she took the pretty red reins
from May with a delighted "Thank you."

Mrs. Bartlett was waiting to smile her final
good-byes to them as they drove up the drive-
way past the piazza, and it was just then, as
they went whisking by, that Cathy, with a bright
red blush, kissed her hand, and called out
sweetly above the others' voices :

" Good-night, Mrs. Bartlett. I 've had a
lovely time."

Susy, cuddled down in the bottom of the
wagon close up against Joanna, breathed a little
sigh of satisfaction, and gave a little squeeze
to Joanna's hand.

A JINGLE.

By Francis Randall,

A mandarin of high degree,
Oh, bow, bow and be polite,

A mandarin from far Chinee —
Oh, bow, bow and be polite.

A mandarin of high degree,
A mandarin from far Chinee ;
I am the pink of courtesy —
Oh, bow, bow and be polite.

Then take this lesson now from me,
Oh, bow, bow and be polite,

When any one e'er jostles thee —
Oh, bow, bow and be polite.

Take this lesson now from me,
When any one e'er jostles thee,
Maintain a proper dignity.
But bow, bow and be polite.

SONG OF THE SNOWFLAKES.

By John Vance Cheney.

From the cloudy fountain
Down to the mountain,
From the mountain into the vale,
It 's ho, to go, to drift and sail,
To glisten along the wintry gale.

Round and round

With never a sound.

Hill to hollow

Fall and follow ;
Thicker, faster, merry flakes !
Over the land and over the lakes,
Here and there, everywhere,
On the wings of air.

Oh, it 's hither and thither,

Everywhither !

Blithe to hurry and flurry and shine ;

You take the spruce ; and you, the pine ;

While the tips of the hemlock I '11 make mine.

White, all white.

Come, spirits of light,

Hill to hollow

Flock and follow !
Thicker, and faster, flake to flake —
First to the forest across the lake !
Softly, softly, drop we, now,
Into the warm, dark bough.

A WONDERFUL PAIR OF SLIPPERS.

(WITH LETTERS CONCERNING THEM FROM MARK TWAIN AND ELSIE LESLIE LYDE.)

Mark Twain's Letter.

Hartford, Oct. 5, '89.

Dear Elsie : The way of it was this. Away-
last spring, Gillette and I pooled intellects on
this proposition : to get up a pleasant surprise
of some kind for you against your next visit —
the surprise to take the form of a tasteful and
beautiful testimonial of some sort or other, which
should express somewhat of the love we felt for
you. Together we hit upon just the right thing
— a pair of slippers. Either one of us could
have thought of a single slipper, but it took both
of us to think of two slippers. In fact, one of
us did think of one slipper, and then, quick as a
flash, the other thought of the other one. It
shows how wonderful the human mind is. It
is really paleontological ; you give one mind a
bone, and the other one instantly divines the
rest of the animal.

Gillette embroidered his slipper with astonish-
ing facility and splendor, but I have been a long
time pulling through with mine. You see, it
was my very first attempt at art, and I could n't
rightly get the hang of it along at first. And
then I was so busy that I could n't get a chance
to work at it at home, and they would n't let me

embroider on the cars ; they said it made the
other passengers afraid. They did n't like the
light that flared into my eye when I had an in-
spiration. And even the most fair-minded peo-
ple doubted me when I explained what it was I
was making — especially brakemen. Brakemen
always swore at it, and carried on, the way ig-
norant people do, about art. They would n't
take my word that it was a slipper ; they said
they believed it was a snow-shoe that had some
kind of a disease.

But I have pulled through, and within twenty-
four hours of the time I told you I would —
day before yesterday. There ought to be a key
to the designs, but I have n't had time to get
one up. However, if you will lay the work be-
fore you with the forecastle pointing north, I will
begin at that end and explain the whole thing,
layer by layer, so that you can understand it.

I began with that first red bar, and without
ulterior design, or plan of any sort — just as I
would begin a Prince and Pauper, or any other
tale. And mind you it is the easiest and surest
way ; because if you invent two or three people
and turn them loose in your manuscript, some-
thing is bound to happen to them, — you can't
help it ; and then it will take you the rest of the

r 'i

ffl«=>r f.lfif.

IN BLACK AND WHITE OF THE SLIPPER EMBROIDERED BY TUAhMC TWAIN FOR ELSIE LESLIE LVDE.

COPY IN BLACK AN'J WHITE OF THE SKIPPER EMBROIDERED BY WILLIAM f.ILLETTE FOR FLSIF LESLIE I.YDE.

312

A WONDERFUL PAIR OF SLIPPERS.

[Feb.

book to get them out of the natural consequences
of that occurrence, and so, first thing you know,
there 's your book all finished up and never cost
you an idea. Well, the red stripe, with a bias
stitch, naturally suggested a blue one with a per-
pendicular stitch, and I slammed it in, though
when it came daylight I saw it was green —
which did n 't make any difference, because green
and blue are much the same anyway, and in
fact from a purely moral point of view are re-
garded by the best authorities as identical.
Well, if you will notice, a blue perpendicular
stitch always suggests a ropy red involved stitch,
like a family of angle-worms trying to climb in
under each other to keep warm — it would sug-
gest that, every time, without the author of the
slipper ever having to think about it at all.

Now at that point, young Dr. Root came in,
and of course he was interested in the slipper
right away, because he has always had a passion
for art himself, but has never had a chance to
try, because his folks are opposed to it and
superstitious about it, and have done all they
could to keep him back ; and so he was eager
to take a hand and see what he could do. And
it was beautiful to see him sit there and tell Mrs.
Clemens what had been happening while we
were off on summer vacation, and hold the
slipper up toward the end of his nose, and for-
get the sordid world, and imagine the canvas
was a " subject " with a scalp wound, ami nimbly
whirl in that lovely surgical stitch which you
see there — and never hesitating a moment in
his talk except to say " Ouch " when he stuck
himself, and then going right on again as smooth
and easy as nothing. Yes, it was a charming
spectacle. And it was real art, too, — realistic ;
just native untaught genius ; you can see the very
scalp itself, showing through between the stitches.

Well, next I threw in that sheaf of green rods
which the lictors used to carry before the Roman
Consuls to lick them with when they did n't be-
have, — they turned blue in the morning, but
that is the way green always acts.

The next week, after a good rest, I snowed in
that sea of frothy waves, and set that yellow
thing afloat in it and those two things that are
skewered through it. It is n't a home-plate,
and it is n't a papal tiara with the keys of St.
Peter ; no, it is a heart — my heart — with two

arrows stuck through it — arrows that go in blue
and come out crimson — crimson with the best
drops in that heart, and gladly shed for love of
you, dear.

Now, then, as you strike to the south'ard and
drift along down the starboard side, abaft the
main-to'-gallant scuppers, you come to that blue
quarter-deck which runs the rest of the way aft
to the jumping-off place. In the midst of that
blue you will see some big red letters — M. T. ;
and west'ard, over on the port side, you will
see some more red letters — to E. L. Aggre-
gated, these several groups of letters signify,
Mark Twain to Elsie Leslie. And you will
notice that you have a gift for art yourself, for
the southern half of the L, embroidered by your-
self, is as good as anything I can do, after all
my experience.

There, now you understand the whole work.
From a professional point of view I consider
the Heart and Arrows by all odds the greatest
triumph of the whole thing ; in fact, one of the
ablest examples of civil-engineering in a begin-
ner I ever saw — for it was all inspiration, just
the lightning-like inspiration of the moment. I
could n't do it again in a hundred years, — even
if I recover this time and get just as well and
strong as I was before. You notice what fire
there is in it — what rapture, enthusiasm,
frenzy — what blinding explosions of color. It is
justa "Turner" — that is what it is. It is just like
his " Slave Ship," that immortal work. What you
see in the " Slave Ship " is a terrific explosion
of radiating rags and fragments of flaming crim-
son flying from a common center of intense yel-
low which is in violent commotion — insomuch
that a Boston reporter said it reminded him of a
yellow cat dying in a platter of tomatoes.

Take the slippers and wear them next your
heart, Elsie dear ; for every stitch in them is a
testimony of the affection which two of your
loyalest friends bear you. Every single stitch
cost us blood. I 've got twice as many pores
in me now as I used to have ; and you would
never believe how many places you can stick a
needle into yourself until you go into the em-
broidery line and devote yourself to art.

Do not wear these slippers in public, dear;
it would only excite envy ; and, as like as not,
somebody would try to shoot you.

A WONDERFUL PAIR OF SLIPPERS.

Merely use them to assist you in remembering
that among the many, many people who think
all the world of you is your friend,

Mark Twain.

Elsie's Reply.

New York, October 9, 1889.
My dear Mr. Clemens : The slipper the
long letter and all the rest came this afternoon,
I think thay are splendid and shall have them
framed and keep them among my very most
prechus things. I have had a great many nice
things given to me and people often say very
pleasant things but I am not quite shure they al-
ways mean it or that they are as trustable as you
and " Leo " and I am very shure thay would
not spend their prechus time and shed their
blood for me so you see that is one reason
why I will think so much of it and then it was
all so funny to think of two great big men like
you and " little Willie " (that is what " Leo "
calls himself to me) imbroidering a pair of slip-
pers for a little girl like me of corse you have
a great many large words in your letter that I do
not quite understand. One word comencing

with P. has fifteen letters in it and I do not know
what you mean by pooled unless you mean you
and Leo put your two minds together to make
the slippers which was very nice of you both I
think you are just right about the angle worms
thay did look like that this summer when I used
to dig them for bate to fish with please tell Dr.
Root I will think of him when I look at the part
he did the Surgicle Stich I mean I hope you
will be quite well and strong by the time you
get this letter as you were before you made my
slipper it would make me very sad if you were
to be ill. Give my love to Mrs. Clemens Susie
Clara Gene I-know and you-know and Vix and
all of my Hartford friends tell Gene I wish I was
with her and we would have a nice jump in the
hay loft. When you come to New York you
must call and see me then we will see about
those big words my address is up in the top left
corner of this letter.
To my loyal friend

Mark Twain
From his little friend

Elsie Leslie Lyde.

[Not Little Lord Fauntleroy now but Tom Canty of
Offal Court and Little Prince Edward of Wales.]

A VALENTINE FOR ALLIS.

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

Old Jack Frost who draws the picture
On your window-pane at night

Thought his poor heart was a fixture,
For he kept it frozen tight.

He just 'spects he wore it sometime
In some street that Allis crossed,

And she carries so much sunshine
That it melted and was lost !

'T was so cold he could n't feel it,
'T was too hard to ache or smart ;

He thought nobody would steal it,
Such a hard old frozen heart !

Was it you it went away with ?

Did it happen by mistake ?
Do you keep it just to play with ?

Please be careful ! It will break.

Poor Jack Frost ! Before he knew it
Some one took it without leave ;

For he never thought they 'd do it,
And he wore it on his sleeve !

After thinking well about it,

This is what Jack Frost has said :

He '11 agree to do without it,

If you '11 give him yours, instead !

Vol. XVII.— 37.

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

By Thomas Stevens.

■ZT

b, v. s*

5 v~ ^=^

EITHER in Wood's
" Mammalia," the
" Encyclop asdi a
Britannica," Walsh's
book of "The Dog,"
"Youatt on the
Dog," nor in works
of other eminent
authorities on the
subject of dogs, for-
eign and domestic, does one find any descrip-
tion of a breed that won my admiration in Asia
Minor. One of these authorities, treating of the
English mastiff, hints that its origin may possibly
have been Asiatic, since the nomads of that con-
tinent have breeds of mastiff-like canines ; but
this meager reference tells nothing further. This
absence of information rather surprised me, for
the dogs I speak of made a profound impression
on me at the time, by reason of their size and
noble appearance.

One day while traversing the desert pastures
of Kurdistan, I saw, outlined against the sky,
on a knoll not far away, the figure of a man,
and what looked like a pair of lionesses. I was
riding a bicycle (it was on my ride around the
world), and since nothing of the sort had been
seen in that country before, man and animals
stood gazing at me with blank astonishment
depicted in their very attitudes. As I drew
nearer, the animals evidently made up their
minds that, no matter what else I might be, I
was, at all events, an interloper ; and so they
came bounding after me.

Dismounting as they approached, I picked
up a stone, and by so doing brought to a stand,
within a dozen yards, two of the most magnifi-
cent clogs I ever saw. Newfoundlands, English
mastiffs, Great Danes, and other splendid dogs,
I, of course, knew very well by sight; but these
two monsters that stood baying me with deep,
gruff voices — were they dogs, or what? In

color, they were tawny ; they had about the same
quantity of hair on their bodies as a lioness has ;
the same broad massive head, the long tail ; and
if not quite so large as a full-grown lioness they
were at all events the largest dogs I had ever
beheld. In addition to all these points of
resemblance, they had wild-looking eyes which
gave them a very ferocious aspect.

The man on the knoll was a Kurdish shep-
herd, and these were the co-guardians of his
flock. Although within hailing distance, the
Kurd stood and watched his dogs badgering
me as if he thought it of small consequence
whether they tore me down or not.

The dogs were such splendid animals ! —
otherwise I should have felt very much like
resenting this churlish attitude of their master
toward a lone stranger, by treating them to a
revolver bullet. Had I done so, however, as I
afterward learned, there would have been no
end of trouble, for these nomads value their
dogs very highly, and regard the killing of one
of them as crime little short of murder.

Before starting into the interior of Asia, I had
thought of getting a good dog to take with me
on the road to Teheran. I abandoned the idea,
however, at Constantinople, which was very for-
tunate, as a dog would have got me into hot
water continually, owing to the necessity of de-
fending him from the stray curs of every village
passed through. Possibly I might have pulled
him through alive, however, till I reached the
Kurdish camps, when their huge dogs would
have ended his career very shortly.

It is a peculiarity of clogs the world over, to
reflect in their nature the character and condition
of their owners. The thoroughly domesticated
dog is to be found only in highly civilized com-
munities. The Kurds themselves are but semi-
civilized, and consequently their dogs are half-
wild brutes, but imperfectly trained to obey.
Like their masters, they also are possessed of a

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

315

streak of cowardice that offsets their ferocity,
and, big as they are, a resolute attitude on the
part of the person attacked will bring them to
a stand. But for this, it would be quite dan-
gerous to attempt to go through their country
on a bicycle, for one sometimes encounters as
many as a dozen of them together.

A very annoying feature of making their ac-
quaintance, is the unwillingness of the Kurds to
call them off. To do this, they argue, is to les-
sen the dogs' ferocity and courage for purposes
of attack, when called upon to do serious work.
This may be all very well from the standpoint of
the Kurds, but it is a view of the case in which
the passing stranger can hardly be expected to
meekly concur, when he is the victim. Few
travelers care to act as bait for fierce-looking,
half- wild dogs, bigger than mastiffs, for the sake
of stimulating and encouraging their savageness.
On horseback with a good whip, or even afoot,
it matters little; for one can keep them at bay
with a stick or by throwing stones; but, while
riding upon a bicycle, over some difficult trail
requiring all one's attention to avoid a header,
these big animals would often come charging
down on me, and as I pedaled along, quite
powerless to defend myself, threaten to seize me
by the legs. On more than one occasion I was
well aware that the Kurds encouraged the dogs
to give chase after I had gone past, out of a
curiosity as to my speed.

One day I overtook a party that had four
monster dogs in leash. As usual, they stood
still and watched my progress past without a
word, their wild eyes scanning me and my
strange steed with mingled apprehension and
astonishment. I had forged ahead about a hun-
dred yards, when they seemed to have made up
their minds that I was only a human being after
all, and so, in a spirit of wanton mischief, they
let slip the dogs. The dogs themselves were
half afraid of the bicycle, but for several hundred
yards they romped alongside, their big, lion-like
heads on a level with my knees, and disagree-
ably close. Their bark was deep-toned and
husky, between the roar of a lion and the bark
of an English mastiff, and either of the four had
strength enough to tear me down had his cour-
age been equal to his will.

Such encounters as this, on bad roads, where

a header was likely to happen at any moment,
were of daily occurrence, and serve to enrich,
with lively incident, my memories of the big
Kurdish dogs. Whether they would fall on me
tooth and nail, should I take a sudden spill right
among them, was, on such occasions, a serious
question to my mind. I think, however, that
such a sudden flop would have sent them scur-
rying back to their masters. Any sudden, un-
expected motion by a man generally has that
effect on any dog but a bull-dog ; and more
especially on the half-wild dogs of Asia.

Years ago, when the authority of the Turk-
ish government sat more lightly on these nomad
tribes than it does to-day, and they were pow-
erful enough to do as they pleased, they were
much given to lording it over the peaceful vil-
lagers of Armenia. A fruitful source of trouble
between the two parties was these same dogs
that readily seconded their masters in bullying
and harassing the peaceful tillers of the soil.
If by any chance a villager killed a dog, the
Kurds exacted from the community to which
the man belonged, a penalty that was as unique
as it was oppressive. The dead dog was hung
up by his tail to a cross-beam, so that the tip of
his nose just cleared the ground. The unlucky
villagers were then required to bring measure
after measure of wheat and pour over it until
the carcass was completely covered up. This
wheat the Kurds poured into sacks and carried
off to their camp. The amount required to
build a mound high enough to bury the dog in
this manner, was considered by them a fair com-
pensation for its loss. From the tip of the nose
to the end of the tail many of these dogs meas-
ure, I should say, six feet. Any of my readers
may readily figure out the number of bushels of
wheat contained in such a mound.

These summary measures are no longer toler-
ated, but the Kurds and their clogs are, in
certain districts, a perpetual menace to the
villagers, and the feuds arising therefrom cause
no end of trouble. The Kurds still value their
splendid dogs so highly that it is almost impos-
sible to buy one, and the life of a villager or
stranger is regarded by them as of small conse-
quence compared with the life of one of their
best dogs.

These freebooting shepherds and their noble

ii6

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

[Feb.

canine companions have together roamed the
desert pastures of northern Asia Minor from
the earliest ages. They were the same boon
camai-ades they are to-day, long before the time
of Christ ; and they have lived sturdily on with-
out change, while governments to which they
paid taxes have come and gone, risen and fallen,
and the settled populations about them have
changed. The Kurd and his dog have seen
the ancient kingdom of Armenia, of which they
were once tribal subjects, crumble to nothing,
and have seen the Armenians scattered like the
Jews, and the very name of the country changed,
by the Turks, to Kurdistan.

The origin of both dogs and masters is lost in
remote antiquity, and they seem quite insepara-
ble from each other and their common habitat.
The Kurd is never seen far from his tribal
pastures, and the dog, if taken away, dies of
a broken heart. An English traveler once ob-
tained a fine pair of these dogs from a Kurdish
chief, for the purpose of introducing the breed
into England. He employed a young Kurd
to accompany the dogs to Trebizond, from
which point they were separated from all the
associations of their old life. As soon as the
Kurd had taken his departure and the dogs
found themselves among strangers, they refused
to eat, and in a few days pined away and died.

Another fine Asiatic dog which deserves a
passing notice is the Persian greyhound. At the
present day he occupies a very unique position
in his native country, owing to the prevalence
of the Mohammedan faith. To the Mohamme-
dans, as to the Israelites of old, dogs are unclean
animals, unfit for man's association. The Persian
is careful that even his garments shall not brush
against the common dog, but he makes an
exception in favor of the greyhound. The grey-
hound is the only dog the Persian admits to
companionship ; the only one, in fact, that can
be said to have an owner and a home in that
country. The other dogs there are half-re-
claimed pariahs that live in the streets and
belong to no one.

The Persian greyhound, when thoroughly do-
mesticated, is a beautiful animal, resembling the
best English breeds in the grace and symmetry
of its form; but, unlike the animals of those
breeds, it has long, silky hair on ears, tail, and

feet. A common custom among the nobles of
Teheran is to dye the ears, tail, and feet of their
greyhounds yellow with henna. The same parts
of dogs belonging to the Shah are dyed crimson,
as are the tails of his horses ; no one but the
king is allowed to use that color.

The Persian greyhound is used to course hares
and antelopes, and the wild asses that abound
on the deserts of that country. In its wild state,
the latter animal is remarkably swift, and no ani-
mal but the greyhound can follow it over the
rough, rocky ground where it seeks refuge when
pursued. Trained hawks are used to assist in
hunting antelopes. The hawks are taught to
fly at the antelopes and attack them in the face,
thus impeding them, lessening their pace, and
enabling the hounds to overtake them.

From bas-reliefs of hunting scenes, discovered
among the ruins of ancient cities, it has been
proved that the greyhound was used by the
Persians to hunt game, three thousand years
ago. At present there are two distinct classes
of these dogs, though they are of the same breed.
There is the city-bred greyhound, kept for orna-
ment and for an occasional day's coursing ; and,
among the nomads, his country cousin, a coarser
and more shaggy-coated animal. The latter is
less refined, both in limb and temper, than the
city dog ; his temper is, in fact, quite fierce and
uncertain. He is not unlikely, when baffled in
the pursuit of game, to turn and attack the
huntsmen. Sometimes the Persian hunter is
compelled in self-defense to shoot his own grey-
hounds.

Everybody, of course, has heard of the " pa-
riahs " of the East. Pariah is the name given
to the swarms of semi-domesticated dogs that
live in the streets of Constantinople and of every
town and city in Asia. The pariah is a mangy,
ill-conditioned brute, of wolfish appearance and
reddish-yellow color. By the Turks, Persians,
and other Mohammedan peoples, they are re-
garded as unclean animals which must on no
account be allowed to touch even their garments.
But their presence on the streets is tolerated,
and even encouraged, because they devour the
offal and refuse from the houses, and so act as
scavengers for the good of the public health.
The pariahs, in fact, are the only scavengers
of most Eastern cities.

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

Though despising them as unclean beasts, the
people recognize the value of their services and
treat them kindly after a certain manner. I
was much interested, while in Teheran, in the
fate of a number of these pariahs, which had
at various times fallen down into the deep dry
moat that surrounds the city. As the moat is
deep and the sides perpendicular, and no one
would ever think of helping them out, the un-
fortunate dogs were prisoners for life. But al-
though they could not " defile themselves " by
helping the curs out, many tender-hearted people
used to throw food down to them, and as there
were certain places where they could get water
this curious colony of prisoners managed to live
on from day to day. Now and then one dies
of disease or old age ; but other dogs tumble
into the ditch, and so keep up the number.

A curious thing about the pariahs is the way
in which they have apportioned out the streets of
the cities among themselves. They are divided
into tribes or communities, which occupy well-
defined quarters of the city, and have sole right
to the refuse food from certain houses and shops.
Into this quarter must no outside dog venture
in search of food. If he does, the whole tribe
take after him, and, unless he is swifter of foot
than they, fall upon him ; and the trespasser on
forbidden territory frequently pays for his temer-
ity with his life. A trespassing pariah racing for
his life down the streets, with a whole pack of
his neighbors in full hue and cry at his heels, is
a common sight in an Eastern city. The scene
very forcibly suggests a pack of wolves racing
through the streets after their prey.

It is this clannish spirit of the pariahs that
makes it so troublesome for the traveler to take
a domestic dog through the streets. Any strange
dog, seen on their domain, is regarded as an in-
terloper, or poacher, to be driven off or killed.
They recognize the difference, however, between
a foreigner's dog and an offender of their own
species, and in cities where the foreigner and
his dog are often seen, the pariahs content them-
selves with howling their protest against the in-
vasion of their territory, instead of falling upon
him tooth and nail.

On the other hand, the dog which the mis-
sionary or traveler takes with him into the East,
never associates with the native dogs under any

circumstances. There is as great a gulf between
the natures and habits of the two, as between
those of his master and of the natives them-
selves. The chance European traveler who
comes unexpectedly along is always welcomed
by the missionary's dog with much wagging
of tail, joyous barking, and every canine demon-
stration of delight, as if the two were old friends.
And a domesticated dog, even if his temper is
sour toward strangers, will, in his lonely home
among an alien people and an alien race of
dogs, make an exception in favor of the stranger
who comes in the garb of the Occident.

One of the pleasantest incidents of my jour-
ney through China, was a case of this nature
that happened to me in Schou-schou-foo, an in-
terior city. Some Chinese were conducting me
to a certain house, which I supposed to be the
office of a mandarin. A big black dog issued
from the gate, and, reaching me with joyous
bound, lavished upon me every token of wel-
come a dog is capable of expressing. For a
moment I was quite mystified, when the whole
matter was explained by an English missionary's
poking his head out of the door. Both he and
I were taken by surprise, for a missionary was
the last thing I was expecting to find in Schou-
schou-foo ; but had I been the dog's own mas-
ter, returning after a long absence, his joy at my
appearance could not have been more spon-
taneous.

Another very interesting Asiatic dog is the
dhole, or wild dog, of India. The dhole looks
very much like a pariah, but has certain marks,
notably a dark muzzle and tail, that readily dis-
tinguish him from that animal. Instead of
living in the cities, the dholes make their home
in the dense jungles of India, and shun the
abodes of man as does any other wild animal.
In packs, they hunt down deer and other large
game, and are sometimes met by sportsmen,
pursuing their prey, in silence, through the
jungle. They are said to be quite fearless toward
all other denizens of the jungle, and do not hesi-
tate to attack tigers, wild-boars, or leopards.

A pack of dholes are said to be equal to the
task of killing even the royal-Bengal-tiger, and
the natives will tell you that fierce battles be-
tween the two are waged daily in the depths of
the jungle, and that the dholes are always vie-

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

[Feb

torious. The natives believe, in fact, that the
dholes enjoy fighting tigers better than anything
else, and are always on the war-path after these
striped monsters, and that they hunt down weaker
game only to satisfy their hunger.

Although as wild in every other particular as
wolves, the dholes betray no fear at the sight of
man. English sportsmen who have encountered
packs of dholes pursuing game, say the dogs
would pass quite close, much like a pack of Eng-
lish fox-hounds when on the trail of Master Rey-
nard, merely greeting the man with a glance of
curiosity. On the other hand, strange to say,
the sight of the white hunter's domesticated dog
frightens the dholes nearly out of their wits.
One day, an English officer went gunning for pea-
fowl in the jungle, taking with him " Nimrod,"
his favorite pointer. After a few miles he ran into
a pack of about fifty dholes, that, like himself,
were wandering about in search of game. The
dholes merely looked at him curiously, and then
kept on about their business. The next minute,
however, Nimrod emerged into view from the
undergrowth. Neither he nor his master had
any idea of molesting the dholes, but the mo-
ment they saw him they became terror-stricken,
and the whole pack fled precipitately out of sight.
Some naturalists think the dhole is the ancestor
of all the many varieties of the domestic dog.

Perhaps the noblest specimen of all dogs in
Asia is the Thibet mastiff. He inhabits the
Himalaya Mountains, as that other noble dog,
the St. Bernard, inhabits the Alps. But he is a
fierce, savage animal, and is used for the pur-
pose of repelling strangers, instead of rescuing
them from the snow, as does our good friend
the St. Bernard. The Thibet dog is larger and
stronger than an English mastiff, and with a
heavy black coat. He has a peculiar overhang-
ing upper lip, and a general looseness of skin
about the face that imparts to him a strange,
forbidding expression. His very look implies a
terrible threat, and seems to bid the approaching
stranger, " Beware ! " And the stranger near-
ing a Bhootan village will be wise to heed the
warning, particularly if he is a European, for
the Thibet dog immediately flies into a rage,
at the sight of a white face.

This dog has been called the " Guardian of
the Himalayas," by travelers who have seen

him standing guard on some rocky eminence,
warning the stranger in deep, hoarse tones, on
peril of his life to come no farther. At such
times the imaginative traveler has likened these
dogs to black canine sentinels stationed there
to guard the rugged Himalayan passes from the
advance of civilization.

Though fierce to strangers, the Thibet dog
is a very noble and trustworthy friend to his
owners. At certain seasons, all the men of a
Bhootan village go away for weeks at a stretch,
into India, on trading expeditions. On these
occasions the women and children, the sheep,
and all their possessions are left to the protection
of a pack of these powerful dogs. The intelli-
gent animals are said to fully comprehend their
responsibilities, and woe to the stranger who
presumes to come near their village at such a
time. The Thibet mastiff does not thrive when
taken from his elevated mountain home, the
"roof of the world," as it is called; but he is
not affected by removal to the same extent as
his relative of Kurdistan.

It is a great change to turn from the huge,
half-tamed brutes of Kurdistan and Thibet,
and the wild dogs of India, to a certain clever
little canine that crept into the last pages of
my note-book in Asia — I mean the Japanese
poodle. The Japanese are highly civilized ;
consequently I found among them a great ap-
preciation of pet dogs. The favorite dog of
Japan is a toy-poodle that resembles a King
Charles spaniel. It has very large protruding
eyes, long silky ears, and is a great pet.

One day I arrived at a Japanese inn for the
night. After supper, as is customary with the
amiable Japs when they have a European for
a guest, the son and daughter of the landlord
determined to make things as pleasant for me
as possible. So the young man brought in his
samosan (a stringed instrument) and the young
lady her pet poodle " Yokohama," so called after
the Japanese city of that name. Yokohama
walked into the room ahead of his mistress, on
his hind legs, and at her command halted at the
door to bark and wave his paws to me, by way
of introducing himself. His hair was clipped to
resemble some animal, but exactly what he was
intended to represent I never could make out.
He wore a wide ruffled collar, so that when he

SOME ASIATIC DOGS.

319

stood on all fours looking toward you, very-
little of him could be seen save his head.

He was a very clever little dog ; quite as full
of tricks as some dogs that perform in circuses
here. He stood up and twirled round quite
rapidly on his hind legs, to the tunes played on
the samosan, and at his mistress's command ac-
companied the music with his own voice. A piece
of cake was balanced on his nose, but although
his mouth watered for it, he would eat it only

when his mistress gave him permission. Yoko-
hama also had a great liking for sweetened tea ;
and he had been taught to sit up and hold the
cup between his paws, and drink. This clever
little Japanese dog did many other things, which,
while no more wonderful perhaps than those
many pet dogs in America can do, were enough
to show that the civilization of the people has
on dogs in Asia the same improving effect as on
those of Europe or America.

HOW BESSIE WROTE A LETTER.

By Edith G. Seran.

A cheerful glow came through the isin-
glass in the little stove, before which Bessie was
sitting in a rocking-chair, with her feet on the
fender, and her writing-desk in her lap. But
there was no answering light in Bessie's eyes.
A discouraging cloud on her face threatened a
storm, which presently came, for two big tears
dropped right into the middle of the beautiful
sheet of peachblow paper on which she had
been vainly trying for an hour to write a letter
to the aunt for whom she had been named.

" There ! I 've gone and spoiled it all, now !
I 'd like to know what is the matter with me ?
It looks just horrid, anyway ! " And she held it
up to read it over, for the twenty-first time.

" Dear Aunt Betsey : I now take my pen in hand
to write you a few lines to let you know that I am well
and hope you are the same. I hope you will come to see
us sometime " —

" Can't think of another single thing to write,"
sighed Bessie ; " and this is just the very way I
began my last letter, too. Oh dear ! it 's awful
to have to write letters to old folks — / wish
Aunt Betsey was in Guinea ! "

Then, letting the tear-blotted paper drop on
the floor, Bessie leaned back in the rocking-
chair and looked, moodily enough, into the fire.

" It 's almost dark," she said, " and I 'm so
tired. The old letter can wait till to-morrow."

A little blue flame behind the isinglass now
attracted Bessie's attention. It was fun to watch
it leap up and fall swiftly down out of sight.
But presently it died away altogether, and there

was nothing now to see but the dull, red
pictures in the smoked mica. Bessie had often
watched these grotesque pictures before. But
they had never looked so weird as they did to-
night ; for now the queer little streaks of black
and red seemed to be forming a wrinkled old
face, that was very familiar to Bessie.

" It 's a perfect picture of Aunt Betsey ; only,
it 's scowling — I should think it would be scowl-
ing, too. To think that I wished her in Guinea !
And she sent me all my nice paper, too; I did n't
mean to, I 'm sure ; but I never know what I 'm
going to say when I get into a temper." And
a penitent look stole over Bessie's face.

" I 'm on the way to Guinea now .' " piped a
queer little voice, " I 'm on the way to Guinea;
it 's too late to be sorry. What kind of a place
is Guinea ? "

" Oh ! I don't know," cried Bessie as Aunt
Betsey's image grew more real, and the eyes
more fierce, as she went on :

"You wished me to a place that you did n't
know about ? You are cruel ! Perhaps it 's a
cannibal country ! "

" I did n't mean you to really go .' " cried
Bessie, in dismay.

" But I must go now ; for I 've started, and I
never can stop after beginning to do a thing till
it 's done ! " shrieked the image.

" But / can," whimpered Bessie, thinking of
the unfinished letter.

" Well, I can't — I never do — Oh, I must go!
I must cro ! Cruel Bessie ! Cruel Bessie ! "

HOW BESSIE WROTE A LETTER

320

" Don't! Oh, don't go ! " screamed Bessie.

The figure all this while had been growing
larger and more like Aunt Betsey ; and now it
darted forward with a hideous frown.

"Oh!!" screamed Bessie.

" Why, Miss Bessie, what ails ye ? Ye must
ha' been slapin', shure," said Bridget, who was
just coming in with a light.

" I had a horrible dream," said Bessie, rub-
bing her eyes to make sure that she saw only
Bridget, and not angry Aunt Betsey. " Has
Mother come home yet, Bridget ? "

" No, Miss ; it 's not till siven o'clock I 'm
expectin' her. Was it writin' a letter ye was,
and fell aslape over it ? " And Bridget, picking
up the discarded letter, put it on the table.

" I was trying to write one," answered Bessie.
" Do you ever write letters, Bridget ? "

" Shure, an' it 's only to Patrick that I write
thim at all, at all," said Bridget.

" What do you generally say in them ? "
asked Bessie.

At this question Bridget blushed ; but she
answered bravely :

" Whativer comes into me head I put down
on the paper intirely, Miss. If the mate is a
boilin', sez I, ' Pat, me darlint, the mate is a
boilin', an' it 's meself must write to ye quick.' "

" Would n't you like to have some of this
peachblow paper for a letter to Patrick ? " said
Bessie, holding out her well-stocked writing-
desk.

" Shure, an' if it 's not robbin' ye complately,
I '11 be after takin' one page fur Patrick."

Bessie gave her three sheets with envelopes.

" It 's a blissed angel ye are intirely ! It 's
this very night I '11 be writin' to him " ; and,
holding the gift daintily between her thumb and
forefinger, Bridget joyfully took her departure.

" Not much of a blessed angel am I," thought
Bessie, ruefully. " I feel ashamed, I do ; but
I '11 write that letter now. I '11 sit down to this
table, and I '11 never get up till it 's done. I
ought to write as well as Bridget, anyway."

So, taking a fresh sheet of paper, Bessie sat
down resolutely and began to move her pen.
She wrote quite steadily for twenty minutes by
the little clock on the mantel. Then she read
it all over carefully, and, with a satisfied air, put
it into an envelope just as the supper-bell rang.

The next afternoon, when Aunt Betsey received
that letter, she looked quite surprised, and said :

" A long letter from Bessie ? Why, something
must surely have happened ! "

Then she began to read :

" Dearest Aunt Betsey : I am so glad you are not
going to Guinea. I dreamed that you were on the way
there, and it frightened me. I hope you won't ever go
there ; for I don't believe it 's a very nice place to visit.

" It is in Africa somewhere, and I think only colored
people live there — but I am not quite sure. Anyway,
I don't want you to go. Don't you ever go anywhere —
except when you come to see its !

" I like this peachblow paper that you sent me on
Christmas ever so much. There was enough of it to fill
my writing-desk all the way up to the top, so I could n't
put the lid down at first ; but I can shut it now. I have
just given some of my paper to Bridget. Mother says we
ought to be kind to Bridget, and I like to give things
away, when I have plenty more left. Bridget is going
to write a letter to Patrick to-night — I know she is, be-
cause she said so. I suppose he must be her brother,
or somebody. Anyway, she writes beautiful letters to
him. Sometimes she does it while the meat is boiling.
I think she is a real smart Irish girl.

" I am all alone in the sitting-room. Mother has gone
to the city; and Jim is off skating. Nobody has been in
here all the afternoon, except Bridget and the cat. Brid-
get did n't stay long — she had to get supper ready — but
the cat is here yet. It is lying by the fire — I don't care
much for this cat — it belongs to Jim.

" Before Mother went away she told me to write a nice,
long letter to you, while she was gone. I did n't begin
it right away. I looked out of the window at an old
organ-grinder on the other side of the street, and he
played tunes at five houses without getting a single
penny. I wonder if he will have any supper to-night.

" When he had gone around the corner, I took my writ-
ing-desk, and sat down by the fire — I was going to be-
gin this letter, then ; but first I counted all my sheets of
peachblow paper and all my envelopes — I wanted to
see how many I had. There were seventy-six sheets of
paper and eighty envelopes. Then I began to write ;
but I spoiled my first sheet of paper. The way I spoiled
it was that I got angry and cried on it ; and then I went
to sleep, and had a bad dream about you. I was sure
you were going to Guinea.

" Bridget came in to bring a light, and she woke me up.

" I have been trying to write this letter the way Bridget
writes to Patrick. I think it is a good way to write let-
ters. My paper is full now, so I will stop.

" Your loving niece, Bessie."

" How that child does improve," said Aunt
Betsey, laying down her spectacles. " Whatever
made her dream that I was going to Guinea, I
wonder ? "

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

FOURTH PAPER.

By Walter Camp.

MAKING AN' OPENING FOR A RUNNER.

Development of the Names of the
Various Positions.

When the sport was first introduced the
players were called, according to their position,
forwards, half-backs, and goal-tends. The for-
wards were also sometimes spoken of as rushers,
and the goal-tends as backs. These latter names,
apparently, were more suited to the tastes of
the players, so they have become more usual,
and the terms forward and goal-tend are sel-
dom used. Beyond these general divisions
there were neither distinctive names nor, in
the early days, distinctive duties. One of the
first rushers to receive a special name was the
one who put down the ball in a scrimmage.
Originally the man who happened to have the
ball when the down was made, himself placed it
on the ground. It soon became evident that
certain men were unable to perform this duty
so well as others, and it was not long before
the duty was delegated to one man. As he
usually stood in the middle he was called the
center-rusher. This name has since given place
almost entirely to " snap-back," owing to the
universal custom of playing the scrimmage by
snapping the ball back with the foot.

Vol. XVII.— 38. 3

As the game, after starting with eleven play-
ers, was then altered to fifteen, there was an
opening made by these increased numbers for
more positions. It was in the first days of
fifteen men, that the quarter-back play and
position first acquired proper form. There was
not only a quarter-back but also a three-quarter-
back, — that is, a player who stood between the
half-backs and the backs. With the return to
eleven men the three-quarter-back disappeared,
but the quarter-back, or man who first received
the ball from the scrimmage, still remained.

The next position to assume prominence and
a name was that of end-rusher. The two men
who played on the ends of the forward line
found unusual opportunities for the exercise of
ingenuity in the sport, and their duties were
more manifold than those of any of the other
rushers. They found opportunities to make
runs, opportunities to drop back a little, and
make fair catches of short kicks (for it was then
quite in vogue to make a short kick at kick-off),
opportunities of running along with a half-back
and receiving the ball from him when he was
likely to be stopped ; in fact, to perform the
duties of the position required so many qualities
that the best all-round men were selected for

322

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Feb.

the work, and it became quite a feather in a
man's cap to be an end-rusher. After this there
were but four men on the team who were not
specifically classed and designated. These were
the two next the ends and the two next the center.
The latter took up the name of " guards," as they
protected the quarter when the ball was snapped.

This picture shows the finally successful tackle of a runner who has evidently made ;
dashing run, throwing off the men until several have tackled him together, and, by throw
ing themselves upon him, at last brought him to a standstill.

The former were called "tackles," probably
because, before the tricks in running were so
highly developed as at present, a large share of
the tackling did fall to them. This division of
players is now universal, and each position has
duties and responsibilities peculiar to itself.

General Strategy of the Game.

It would be to leave the subject of foot-ball
but half completed, did one fail to touch upon
the larger strategies of a campaign, and to show
how the almost unlimited lesser plays, when prop-
erly grouped, prove irresistible in advancing the
ball. The first thing to be considered is the
material at the captain's command. The foot-
ball player can never be educated to a pitch of
machine-like perfection, nor will any amount of
training make him absolutely untiring. It is
therefore necessary to start with the premise that
no one or two men can do all the work. The
object must be to use each man to the full ex-
tent of his capacity without exhausting any. To

do this scientifically, involves placing the men in
such positions on the field that each may perform
the work for which he is best fitted, and yet not
be forced to do any of the work toward which his
qualifications and training do not point. From
this necessity grew the special divisions of players
as indicated in one of the early diagrams of a
previous article. It might seem
that this division of players
would take all responsibility
from the captain's shoulders,
but it does not do this by any
means. It only insures some
sort of regularity of work for
each individual. For instance,
a rusher will never be called
upon to drop-kick a goal, nor
will a half be forced to snap-
back the ball.

There still remains the pos-
sibility of giving any one of
these men so much work of his
own special kind to perform as
will exhaust him, and thus make
it impracticable to call upon
him when he is most needed.
Here is an element quite dis-
similar to any entering into our
other popular sport, base-ball. If one might sup-
pose that it were possible in that game to let the
most rapid base runner do as much of the run-
ning for the rest of the nine as the captain
chose, we should have a temptation similar to
that which assails the foot-ball captain. It
would not be improbable that this chosen run-
ner would become exhausted under certain
circumstances ; and should he happen to be
the pitcher as well, the results would prove
fatal to the success of his nine. It seems as if
no amount of calm reasoning can convince the
average foot-ball captain of this fundamental
principle. Year after year has the " one man "
game been attempted, and year after year it has
brought to grief the team attempting it. Nor
is it enough for a captain merely to transfer the
play from one player to another in order not to
exhaust any. He must do this at the proper
time and not at hap-hazard. His best runner
will be needed at some critical moment, and at
just that moment must he be used. Forwards

i8go.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

3 2 3

must not be given too much running to do early
in a game, or their tackling and getting through
will suffer. It is a serious mistake to take the
edge off their strength until one is certain of
the style and force of the adversary's running.
As a policy which, while not infallible, will be
most uniformly successful, the following may be
laid down :

Save the rushers as much as possible until
the enemy have had an opportunity to send two
or three of their (presumably) best runners up
against them ; then, if the line holds these men

Early in the game, give the halves an oppor-
tunity to run once or twice, as it warms them
up and puts them in better form for catching
the ball. Nothing is more unpleasant for a poor
shivering half, who has n't had the ball in his
hands, than to be forced to make, as his first
play, a fair catch.

These ideas regarding the use of material will
suggest the details to any thoughtful captain.

The next point to be considered is the adver-
sary. In the great games, a captain usually has
some knowledge of his rivals' strength and re-

This picture shows a try-at-goal by a place-kick. The forwards are lined out across the field, each one careful to be behind the bail
when it is kicked. The man lying on the ground is pointing the ball at the goal under the direction of the half-back. This man stands
back several yards, as the kick is evidently to be a long one.

without difficulty, the rushers can be used more
freelv for general plav.

The halves and back should not be given any
tackling to do in the beginning of the game.
Insist upon the rushers attending to their busi-
ness so thoroughly as to avoid all possibility of a
runner coming through.

sources before he faces them on the field. Even
though he may not have this knowledge, fifteen
minutes of play ought to give him a fairly ac-
curate idea of the weaknesses and strong points
of his adversary. It then remains for him to
take advantage of this knowledge. It is well-
nigh a rule, so common is it, that a team has a

3 2 4

INTERCOLLEGIATE TOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Feb.

This illustrates the typical feature of the American game in distinction from the English ; namely, the open scrimmage. The ball is
placed on the ground, and the snap-back stands with his foot or hand upon it, and when his quarter-back gives him the signal that all are
ready he snaps it backward. The quarter receives it and passes it to another of his own side for a kick or run. The position of the players in
this picture is excellent, showing, as it does, the points of play as one can see them only in an actual game. Beginning at the left of the
picture we see the end-rusher of the side which has not the ball. With his eyes fixed upon the center with the keenest attention, he awaits
the first movement of the ball to dash through at the man who is likely to receive it. His opponent stands watching him -with equal inten-
sity, ready to block him at the moment he starts. Next stands the tackle, apparently perfectly oblivious of the man facing him, and there
is a confidence expressed in his attitude which assures one that this man, at least, will get through like a flash when the ball goes. Then
there are two men, both stooping forward so that one sees but a leg of each. Of these two, one is the guard and the other the quarter-back,
who, seeing a chance of getting through, has run up into this opening. The opposing guard is straighteninghimself up, in order to cover,
if possible, both these opponents. If one may judge from appearances, however, he will be tumbled over most unceremoniously by the
onslaught of the guard and quarter. The center-rush is braced for a charge, and with mouth open for breath awaits the first movement
of his opponent. He, the snap-back, has just placed his foot upon the ball, and is ready to send it back as soon as the quarter, v, hose back
and leg are just visible, shall give him the signal. The two men in the foreground are opposing guards, one of whom is ready to dash for-
ward, and the other to block. The man who is about to block has his hands clasped, in order that he may be sure not to use them to hold
his opponent, as that is an infringement of the rule. The other men in the rush line we can not see, but one can rest assured that they are
as wide awake to their duties as the eager ones in view. Behind the group stands the referee with his arms folded and eyes intent upon
the ball.

strong side and a weak one. Without intention,
this state of affairs comes to exist toward the
end of a season. At this weak side of the op-
ponents, then, must the early efforts of a team be
directed. When a punt becomes necessary let
the ball be driven over on that side. When an
opposing runner comes, force him in that direc-
tion. Keep a steady press upon the weak side,
and before the game is half over the result will
be most marked.

Next, if the opponents prove to be high tack-
lers, a captain should make constant use of his

low runners and reserve his high steppers for
other work. If the opposing halves are new or
green men, he should see that they have plenty
of kicks to catch.

Another important point is to make the most
of any natural advantages, existing at the mo-
ment, in the force and direction of the wind, the
slant and condition of the ground, and the posi-
tion of the sun. These are elements of success
which no team can afford to ignore. The writer
has seen a team start out with a strong wind
and the sun at their backs, and actually throw

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

3 2 5

away half an hour of the first three-quarters by
a running game without score. Then, evidently
realizing their mistake, they began to kick, and
succeeded in making two goals in the remain-
ing fifteen minutes. . Whenever a favorable wind
is anything more than moderate, a captain is
inexcusable who exhausts his men by holding
too closely to his running game, no matter if
his runners be excellent. A wind which blows
diagonally across the field is by no means to be
despised, for if a captain will work the ball to
the windward side, on his runs and passes, his
kicking will be greatly assisted. The sun, too,
plays an important part, particularly when it is
low in the horizon so that a low punt driven
hard at the half-back forces him to face directly
at the sun in making the catch.

Regarding the general conduct of a final
game, or the one upon which depends the cham-
pionship :

From the less important minor games and
from the daily practice, the captain has learned
not only the caliber of his team, but also their
strongest and weakest plays. Now comes a most
difficult act for any captain, namely, the elimi-
nation of all plays that are not sufficiently well
executed by his men to be classed on the aver-
age as successful plays. Many plays that are
peculiarly successful against weaker teams are,
from their very nature, useless against well-dis-
ciplined opponents. Such plays must be classed
with the unsuccessful ones, and must not be
used in the critical game. The object of elimi-
nating all these plays is twofold. Certain ones
of them must be given up because they would
risk the loss of the ball ; and others because they
would needlessly exhaust the men. As an illus-
tration, let us take the play of short passes along
the line when running. This has always been
a tempting play. It appears scientific and skill-
ful. It gains distance rapidly, and against a
weak team gives the team practicing it an ap-
pearance of superiority not to be denied. The
reason for this is that a weak or undisciplined
team take it for granted that they must all make
for the man who has the ball, and there is, there-
fore, a rush of several men at the runner. He
passes the ball and they all dash after it again.
This work quickly tells upon them and they be-

come tired out and discouraged, so that the run-
ners have everything their own way. With a
thoroughly disciplined team all this is changed.
One or two men may tackle together, but the
line as a whole remains steady, and when the
runner passes the ball the man receiving it has
a tackier upon him almost at once, so that he
too is compelled to pass the ball to still another
who may expect a similar fate. As all this pass-
ing must be at least on a line, and generally back-
ward, nothing is gained, but, on the contrary,
some ground is lost. In addition to this, there is
always the chance — and by no means a small
one — of losing the ball in this quick passing.

Another illustration is the case of long end
throwing, or passing the ball to a runner stationed
well out on the side of the field. This play is
unquestionably strong against rushers who bunch
toward the ball, and in the smaller games it
has resulted in many a touch-down. Against
veterans, however, the play fails, because both
the end and tackle are on the alert and care-
fully guarding any player who is stationed at
the end. By the time the ball reaches him
one or the other of these men is so close to him
that he fails to get a fair start and is usually
downed in his tracks. Then, too, it will some-
times happen that an unusually watchful and
agile tackle will jump through and actually
catch the pass before it reaches the runner.
Such a catastrophe has too severe consequences
to make the risking of it otherwise than an
extremely doubtful venture. A man who thus
gets the ball is in a fair way to realize a touch-
down from it, for the only player who has a fair
chance at him is the back, and the best tackier
on a field must have an unequal chance against
a runner who has the entire breadth of the field
in which to dodge him. Yet again, the runner
to whom the pass is made may muff the ball.
This, although not nearly so serious as an inter-
cepted pass, always results in loss of ground and
sometimes loss of the ball as well.

The consideration of such plays as the two
mentioned gives one a fair insight into the
methods by which the captain must weigh each
play before entering a game of importance with
rivals who in skill, strength, and strategy are
presumably the equal of his team.

By Laura E. Richards.

NCE there lived a little Dutchess,
Just beside the Zuyder Zee ;
Short and stout and roly-poly,
As a Dutchess ought to be.

She had pigs and she had poultry,
She had lands and she had gold ;
And she loved the Burgomaster,
Loved him more than can be told.

"Surly, burly Burgomaster,
Will you have me for your love ?
You shall be my pouter-pigeon,
I will be your turtle-dove.

" You shall have my China porkers,
You shall have each Dorking hen ;
Take them with your loving Dutchess,
Oh, you Dutchiest of men ! "

Loudly laughed the Burgomaster,
" Naught I care for Dorking fowls;
Naught for pig, unless 't is roasted,
And on that my doctor scowls.

" Frumpy, stumpy little Dutchess,
I do not incline to wed.
Keep your pigs, and keep your poultry !
I will take your gold instead.

' I will take your shining florins,
I will take your fields' rich hoard.
You may go and tend your piggies,
Till your spirits be restored."

Loudly wept the little Dutchess,

Tending sad each China pig ;

Loudly laughed the Burgomaster

'Neath his merry periwig, >'.

3=6

THE LITTLE DUTCHESS.

Till the Dutchy people, angry
Conduct such as this to see,
One day plumped the pouter-pigeon
Right into the Zuyder Zee.

ELF SONG.

By Samuel Minturn Peck.

I twist the toes of the birds a-doze,

I tinkle the dew-bells bright :
I chuck the chin of the dimpled rose

Till she laughs in the stars' dim light.
The glowworm's lamp I hide in the damp,

I steal the wild bee's sting ;
I pinch the toad till his legs are a-cramp,

And clip the beetle's wing.
O ho ! hey !
My pranks I play

With never a note of warning.

I set a snare for the moonbeams fair

All wrought of spider-web twine ;
I tangle the naughty children's hair

In a snarl of rare design.
I flit through the house without any noise,

There 's never an elf so sly ;
I break the toys of bad little boys

And the cross little girls who cry,

hey! O ho!

1 work them woe.

Till crows the cock in the morning.

OLD CHIEF CROWFOOT.

By Julian Ralph.

The most interesting Indian among many
thousands whom I saw in a trip through Canada
to the Pacific Ocean, last year, was Sapomaxikow,
the chief of the Blackfeet tribe. He is a king ;
and when I met him he looked like one, was
treated like one, and was on kingly business.
He rode in an emigrants' sleeping-car, to be
sure, but the seats had been arranged as for a
bed, and on them he sat with his feet under him,
tailor-fashion, while two of his "head men" sat

in front of him and others stood close by in the
passage. "Crowfoot" is the English word for
his long Indian name, and he is widely famous
by his English name as the chief of a numer-
ous and once fierce tribe. He was going to a
busy city called Calgary, in the Province of
Alberta, which is north of our new State of Mon-
tana ; and his errand was to order some of the
Indians of his tribe to leave there. Some other
Indians, of the tribe called "Bloods," had also

OLD CHIEF CROWFOOT.

329

set up their smoky tepees or tents at Calgary,
and it was feared there might be fighting, for
the Blackfeet and the Bloods are deadly enemies.

The train carried many city people from cen-
ters like New York and Montreal, and as many
as could do so, crowded into the emigrant-car to
see this once great warrior and still great leader.
He was well worth seeing. He wore a cloak of
buckskin literally covered with really beautiful
toibroidery in beads of bright hues. His short
trousers were hidden, but below them were deer-
skin leggins fringed with colored wisps of the
hair of some wild animal. His leather mocca-
sins were worked all over with quaint designs in
beads, and above his queer hat — a "stove-pipe"
hat with the top torn out — was a proud plume
of eagle feathers. There are rich men, and mu-
seum companies, and even governments, that
would give hundreds of dollars to have the
clothes old Crowfoot wore that day, merely to
show to those who can not travel, and to pre-
serve for future generations the savage mag-
nificence of at least that one Indian chief.

Crowfoot is eighty years old. He has the
complexion of old mahogany, and his face is as
wrinkled as a nutmeg; but if you are a good judge
of faces you will see by his portrait that he has
a finely formed, almost purely Roman, counte-
nance — a face that reminds us of some of the
Caesars who ruled Rome in its glory. The por-
trait shows the countenance of the old savage
in repose, and one sees a hint of cruelty in the
features ; but on that day when we saw him in
the cars he was full of fun; — and good-nature,
you know, is a great helper toward good looks.
A lady asked him why he had never married,
and he shook his head and laughed and told
the interpreter to say that " he could n't find
any woman that would have him." The old
chief wore a life-pass on the railroad. It was in
a little silver frame, hung around his neck by a
chain of silver. The pass was a printed card,
and it said that he should ride for nothing on
the cars as long as he lived. This is because
he is a " good Indian " who keeps his tribe
at peace and obeys the white men's laws.

I saw Chief Crowfoot next day at Calgary.

He was then dressed in moccasins, broadcloth

trousers and vest (given him by the Canadian

Government, once, when they took him to Mont-

Vol. XVII.— 39.

real to show him how the white men live), a
blue flannel shirt, and his high hat and feathers.
He was visiting Father Lacombe, a priest who is
respected all over the world because he probably
knows more about the Indian languages than
any man alive. This same priest is still more
honored by all the Indians, who love him be-
cause he has spent a long life among them and
has always been truthful, kind, and generous
with them. The old priest and the old chief
were delighted to see each other. The priest
told how he had known Crowfoot when a young
warrior, fighting and hunting all the time, before
the white man came and when the buffaloes
were as plentiful on the prairie as fishes in the
sea. Once in a while the good clergyman talked
in Indian to Chief Crowfoot and told him what
he was saying about him.

" I am telling," said the priest, " how one
night when I was with your tribe the Bloods
attacked us ; how the dogs barked, the women
screamed, the children cried, and the muskets
blazed and thundered. It was in the middle
of the night, and all the Blackfeet had been
asleep."

Here the old chief grunted and shook his
head, for all the world like an aged lion.

" I was no fighter," said the clergyman, "but
a priest and minister of peace, and I did not
like this. I rushed out of my tepee and cried
out, ' Stop ! stop ! you will kill me ! ' I yelled
out that it was I, their priest, — for I knew the
Bloods as well as the Blackfeet — "

The old chief grunted at that. He knew
the Bloods, too, but in a different way.

" But I could not make myself heard," said
the priest. "The noise and confusion were too
great. On came the Bloods, and it was life or
death for every one in our camp. There was
nothing else to do, so I changed my commands
and I shouted, ' Give it to them ! ' ' Fire at
them ! ' ' Beat them back ! ' It was a hot fight,
but a short one, for we routed the Bloods."

The eyes of the chief had been blazing, but
when the priest nudged him and said, "We have
seen a great many things in our time, old friend,"
the Indian laughed and laughed, precisely like
a white man, — just as some old general might
do to-day, if a companion should recall to his
mind the exciting scenes of his fighting career.

53°

OLD CHIEF CROWFOOT.

But this is only one side of the story, though
I suspect it is the side that many of the boys
like best to hear. While I was among the In-
dians I often thought of how many thousands
of boys in the cities are anxious to get a gun
and go among the red men, either to see them,
to live with them, or to hunt them. It is nat-
ural, I suspect, for all men must once have been
more or less like the Indians, and what is left
in us of the old nature is, to a greater or less ex-
tent, felt by boys before they grow old enough
to take their full part in the life around them.
All men were once hunters, and the spirit of
that remote past still lingers in the hearts of
boys.

But how disappointed they would be if they
could see the Indians in Canada, — where the
savages are more nearly like what they were a
hundred years ago than are our Indians in the
United States. Beyond the Great Lakes there
are few cities in Canada. The prairies, forests,
mountains, and streams are to a great extent
what they were in the days of the Indians'
glory. True, the red men are prodded with
reservations, but bands of them continually
wander out of these places and roam over the
country. As I said, I saw thousands of them —
Sioux, Bloods, Piegans, Crees, Blackfeet, and
Indians of half a dozen other tribes. But, ex-
cept in the case of old Crowfoot, I saw no dig-
nity, no grandeur, no splendid costumes, no
pride. What I did see, filled me with sadness ;
for I remember when I used to think the In-
dians very different from what I found them to
be. In fact, they are, in Canada to-day, a lot of
idle, lazy vagabonds, rapidly dying of starvation
and bad habits. They are beggars and tramps.

What pride they had, what courage was once
theirs, what romance and prosperity or comfort
flavored their lives, are now all gone. Their
best friend in Canada told me that at the pres-
ent death-rate there will not be a full-blooded
Indian left on the plains in fifteen years.

Poor, poor Indians ! They really lived upon
the buffaloes. The buffalo gave them then-
food, their tents, their clothes, their exercise,
training, and sport, many of their implements',
— the very necessaries of their life. Now that
the buffaloes are gone, the Indians have either
to change into the white man's ways or to fol-
low the departed game to the " happy hunting-
grounds." You would scarcely credit what I
could tell you of their misery, and yet not all
the truth can be told. In place of their former
tents of hide, they now live in tents of cotton
sheeting, and these are tattered and full of holes
burned by flying sparks from their fires. The
winters there — on the plains — are dreadfully
cold. The thermometer falls as low as 50 de-
grees below zero. The shiftless Indians never
think of the morrow, and therefore save no
wood. All winter long, on the reserves, you
will see the poor wretches, in these thin tents,
bent over fires of damp wood and turning
around and around, first with their faces to the
fire and then with their backs to it, to keep from
freezing to death. They are fed by the Gov-
ernment, which keeps them virtually prisoners,
of course ; but those who roam the prairies beg
of white men and sell the bead- work and other
ornaments their poor, abused squaws make.
Nearly all that I found while among them to
recall the romance of the Indian is bound up in
the memory of old Crowfoot. Long may he live !

SCHOOLMATES.

[Virginia, 1744]

By Alice Maude Ewell.

" Oh, Mother, I 'm glad that you sent me.
For all I was frighted to go —
The lads were so kind to me, Mother,
And the master so patient and slow.
My task it was easy a-learning,
My manners I did n't disgrace,
And — oh, Mother ! my seat in the school-room
Is right by George Washington's place.

"Oh, Mother, there 's nobody like him!
There 's nobody like him, for true.
His eyes are so clear and so steady
They look one right through and through ;
Yet once when he missed in the lesson
He turned as red as a rose —
Though there 's not much of aught worth the

knowing
But I '11 warrant George Washington knows.

" For what is the odds about spelling
And Latin and figures and all,
When a body can jump high as he can.
And never miss once, catching ball !
Why, when it came round to the play-time,
And the big lads were sporting so free',
Oh, Mother, you ought to have been there —
I wish you had been there to see !

"At running and wrestling and leaping
He beats every one, I declare,
And the rest might all play 'hounds' forever,
But they never could catch that old 'hare.'
Yet he 's never a bit high-and-mighty
When the little lads ask him to play,
And a-many brave tricks with the marbles
He took pains to show me to-day.

" He cut me this beautiful whistle,
All out of a little smooth stick ;
Just hark how it blows ! Mother, listen !
He made it as easy and quick !
And when Tony Grimes, cross-grained fellow,
Came snatching it from me to try,
I 'm thinking he was n't long finding
I 'd a friend in George Washington, nigh !

" And then we all played ' French and English '
(And very good sport did we find,
With the Frenchies all begging for quarter
And us English hard after behind).
George Washington, he was our captain,
And, I '11 promise you, when he took hold,
Even Captain John Smith fighting 'Injuns'
Was never a soldier so bold.

" And, Mother, he says, if you '11 let me,
And Saturday morning is fine,
I can go with him all day a-fishing ;
So I 'm thinking I '11 want a new line,
And a fish-hook the biggest and strongest,
To pull in my fish safe and tight —
For I 'm sure if George Washington 's with me
There '11 be big fish a-coming to bite.

" Oh, I wonder, I wonder if ever
I '11 be such a brave one as he !
So big, and so wise, and so gallant !
Mother dear, do you think it will be ?
Do you think if I grow fast, and learn fast,
And watch how he does every day,
That I '11 ever be like for to do things
As well as George Washington's way ? "

A "BLUENOSE"* VENDETTA.

(A Story of the United Empire Loyalists.)

By Charles G. D. Roberts.

BOUT the year seventeen hundred
and sixty, there was spread abroad
throughout the State of Massa-
chusetts a report declaring that
certain extensive lands situated
to the northward, in Acadia,
of an inexhaustible and
marvelous fertility, were
lying idle and might be had
for the asking. From
the counties of
Rowley, Box-
ford, and An-
dover, keen-eyed
pioneers were fit-
ted out, carefully
instructed, and
sent forward to
reconnoiter. Report was found to have told
the truth, for once ; and in a year or two a
little body of shrewd and enterprising pilgrims
set forth to take possession of their new in-
heritance. These fair lands were of vast extent,
lying along nearly one hundred miles of the
valley of the river St. John, on both shores.
They consisted, for the most part, of fresh-
water meadows, enriched anew each spring
by the floods, even as are the banks of Nile.
Scattered at most convenient distances along
those meadow-stretches, now called " intervale
land," were fairy knolls and bits of upland
ground, whereon the pioneers could set their
cabins and be secure from the fury of the fresh-
ets. The bold Massachusetts settlers took pos-
session with little ceremony, as a rule, simply
preempting such sites as caught their fancy,
well knowing that their presence was very wel-
come to the rulers of Acadia ; but a few of the

more provident took out title-deeds, against a
possible future emergency. For a time there
were hardships. Even in this paradise there
were perils to be endured, such as wolves, fam-
ine, and occasionally hostile Indians ; but ere
long the settlement was firm-based in a rich
prosperity, and other immigrants came to swell
the tale.

At the time of the Revolution, all the district
which now constitutes the Province of New
Brunswick formed part of the Province of Nova
Scotia. The early settlers of the St. John val-
ley, being of New England stock, were inclined
to sympathize with the thirteen colonies in re-
volt, but in their isolation they did not dare to
declare themselves openly. The Government
of the Province watched them with some care,
but trusted to their self-interest and a remem-
brance of the exceeding liberality with which
they had been treated, to keep them from any
definite outbreak. A few restless spirits, how-
ever, could not be kept at home; and these,
organizing an expedition across country to the
Isthmus of Chignecto, where stood Fort Cumber-
land, succeeded in capturing, in a night raid, a
British schooner laden with supplies. This craft
the boyish adventurers navigated safely to Ma-
chias, in Maine, where they sold her for a good
round sum, and went home happy with the spoils
of war. This irregularity the Provincial Gov-
ernment entirely forgave, on condition that the
owners of the schooner were indemnified in full ;
and so they were, to the deep humiliation of the
bold raiders. But the failure of the settle-
ment to restrain its young bloods more effect-
ually, caused a deep irritation throughout the
province against the squatters of the St. John
valley ; and all the Loyalist party stored it in

* The term " Bluenose " is applied generally to the inhabitants of the three Maritime Provinces of Canada, — Nova
Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island. Strictly speaking, however, it belongs only to the Nova
Scotians, while we New Brunswickers bear the appellation of" Buckwheats." — C. G. D. R.

332

BLUENOSE VENDETTA.

333

their memories, as a sort of attempt to " run
with the hare and hunt with the hounds."

When at last the thirteen colonies found
themselves a nation, there came an evil day for
those colonists who had taken active part on the
British side. An internecine struggle of this kind
always generates the fiercest bitterness, and
throughout the colonies the two parties, though
of one blood and closest kinship, were divided
by the keenest hatred. After the intensity of
the contest, and the terrible losses and sacrifices
endured on both sides, this was not to be won-
dered at. The Royalist party found their posi-
tion in the new Republic an unendurable one.
In fact, those who had made themselves most
obtrusive beheld all their estates confiscated, and
themselves sentenced to exile. Others chose
exile, rather than endure the new rule and the
triumph of their antagonists. A great body of
these Royalists (who were some of the richest
and most aristocratic of the colonists) journeyed
into the land north of the St. Lawrence and the
Great Lakes, where they founded the Province
of Ontario. The rest sailed to Nova Scotia, and
built the city of St. John at the mouth of the St.
John river.

These emigrants from the States received spe-
cial grants and favors from the British Govern-
ment, which was mindful of all they had braved
for their beliefs; and they were formally dignified
with the title of United Empire Loyalists, a title
which has come down to their descendants. Al-
most immediately after their coming to Nova
Scotia, the Province was divided, and what was
formerly the County of Sunbury, with the old
New England settlement as its center, became
the Province of New Brunswick. At the same
time the original settlers in St. John valley, in
order to distinguish them from the United Em-
pire Loyalists, became generally known as the
" Old Inhabitants."

At this juncture, those Old Inhabitants who
had secured their title-deeds felt jubilant, and
went about hugging themselves. Others, again,
hurried off to headquarters to remedy their over-
sight. Yet others, too confident or too careless,
said they " guessed they 'd do as their fathers
had done aforetime," and these, in several in-
stances, being quietly ejected from their farms by
enterprising Loyalist immigrants glad to pay off

a grudge, had to cut themselves new homesteads
out of the bush. These unfortunates received
little sympathy, however, from their more politic
neighbors. It is while things were in this transi-
tion state that my brief story opens, — a story
which I found among the papers of a descend-
ant of the Old Inhabitants, who vouches for its
authenticity and gives me leave to publish it.

It was a summer morning in the year 1783,
and Mr. Joshua Patterson, Old Inhabitant, was
taking a complacent survey of his broad acres,
where were crops waving in the early sun and wet
with shining dew, ere turning into his cabin door
for breakfast. Mr. Patterson's cabin — and a very
ample and comfortable and prosperous-looking
cabin it was — stood on slightly rising ground by
the river, opposite the mouth of the Oromocto
stream, in Maugerville. The morning sun
streamed into the low cottage door, and lighted
up very pleasantly a homely and appetizing
breakfast, set forth on precious old blue and white
crockery which had been brought from Massa-
chusetts in '66. Mr. Patterson had his title-deeds
in due form, and he smacked his lips and called
life good. At this moment he perceived a boat-
load of strangers disembarking at his little land-
ing-place ; so instead of going in to breakfast he
waited in his doorway to receive them.

The strangers were a party of Loyalist immi-
grants, under Major Hastings. Rowing leisurely
up river, in search of a pleasant abiding-place,
the major's eyes had fallen with peculiar satis-
faction upon the well-tilled fields of Mr. Joshua
Patterson. " I rather think this will suit us ! "
he had remarked to his followers ; and now he
had come ashore to take possession. He in-
formed the Old Inhabitant that he 'd take his
farm, which met his taste exactly; and that he
would give him just a day to clear out, bag and
baggage, as a mere vagabond squatter, who was
a rebel into the bargain, ought to do. Mr.
Patterson merely replied that he guessed he 'd
stay where he was, as he himself liked the place
pretty well ; and he calculated the stranger had
better move on. At the same time he made no
stir to produce his title-deeds, being wroth at
the stranger's high-handedness.

LTpon this the Loyalist major began to revile
the Old Inhabitant exceedingly ; and with huge
laughter he drew his sword, and marching

A " BLUEXOSE VENDETTA.

[Fee.

into the cabin he fell upon the breakfast-table,
hacked it to pieces, and scattered all the pre-
cious old Massachusetts cups and saucers and
plates and porridge-basins. Then, seeing no
more worlds to conquer, and observing that
Mr. Joshua Patterson still objected to giving up
his farm, the gallant major paused a moment.
He drew forth a list of those Old Inhabitants
who had duly taken out their titles at Halifax,
and there he found the name of Joshua Patter-
son. The major bowed politely, bade Mr. Pat-
terson a very good morning and marched his
men off to the boat. Some three miles further
on, the major found a home to his liking, and
settled down unhindered. But from the inci-
dent of the smashing of the crockery there grew
up a certain coolness between the families of
Major Hastings, the Loyalist, and Mr. Joshua
Patterson, the Old Inhabitant ; at which fact no
one will be astonished.

As the years went by the Loyalist found him-
self surrounded by a brood of stalwart sons ; and,
large families being the rule in New Bruns-
wick, it came to pass that the Old Inhabitant
was in like fortunate case. Between the two
families there was now sworn feud. A whole-
some Anglo-Saxon respect for life and law pre-
vented the use of fire-arms, and, indeed, any
desire for the actual shedding of blood; but
whensoever the two families, or any members of
them, came in contact, there and then was a
fight. As both families were general favorites and
in demand at every "house raising " or "wood
frolic," the chances of such meetings were very
frequent, and kept the pious settlement in con-
tinual hot water. But such was the prowess of
the two families that no one dared interfere to
quench hostilities. Now it was the Loyalists
whose star seemed in the ascendant, and again
fortune favored the family of the Old Inhabitant ;
and so the dispute bade fair to prove eternal.

By the third generation, however, the family
animosity began to diminish. The descendants
on both sides became so numerous that the stock
of family hate was not enough to go round, and
little by little the younger scions would go to
singing-school together, and come home from
lodge together, and make various gentle attempts
to bury the hatchet. This tendency was looked
upon with deep disfavor by older members of

both families ; and in particular by two young
householders who were the acknowledged lead-
ers of their respective clans. These were Mr.
Joshua Patterson, of the fourth generation, and
young Ponsonby Hastings, himself a major in
the militia. To these it appeared nothing short
of a sacrilege that so sacred an heirloom as their
family hatred should be suffered ignominiously
to die out. Yet their responsibilities as leading
citizens prevented them from deliberately seek-
ing a meeting.

As the mountain came not to Mahomet, Ma-
homet in due time went to the mountain. In
other words, the occasion for a meeting duly
came to the young Old Inhabitant and Major
Ponsonby Hastings. It was permitted them,
prominent citizens as they were, to carry out in
perfect form the traditions of their fine, old,
crusted family feud. The manner of their en-
counter is related with great minuteness of detail
in the family document to which I have already
referred. But I endeavor to avoid the prolixity
of the ancient narrator.

It was an afternoon in early autumn when
Mr. Joshua Patterson of the fourth generation
was strolling along the Maugerville road, whis-
tling contentedly as he thought of his goodly
acres and his thriving herds. Suddenly his
whistling came to an end. for he had come face
to face with Major Ponsonby Hastings.

"Ah, ha! " exclaimed the scion of Loyalist
stock. " At last I 've caught you ! Now we '11
have it out, if you are man enough to stand up
to me : "

To this the Old Inhabitant of the fourth gen-
eration merely replied, " All right ! " and at the
same time he took his hands out of his pockets,
with alacrity.

Then the battle commenced. Unlike the
Homeric heroes, these two New Brunswick
champions wasted neither time nor breath in
mutual recriminations. Each knew exactly what
the other thought of hi